IH 




^ 



& °* 



sis v 



^°- 























V 



Q-,><" 






v Qa v fi -TU ,Y> 



c5> de> 



<^** s ',c? 



% 




***<? 





















< 



$ 



fo 









& °* 



6 <& 









^ 



# 
















' c3 A. 




%*■' 



*&„<& 



&** 






lS ^ 




• . . %' ■•■- /., . . , v-^' /. v 






?n 



^°- 



^ ^ 






^A v 



^ks 






THE 

SAINT'S TRAGEDY: 

OR, 

HE TEUE STOEY OF ELIZABETH OF HTOGAEY. 



BY 



CHARLES KINGSLEY, F.S.A., F.L.S./&C. 

EECTOIL OP EVERSLEY, 
CHAPLAIN IN ORDINARY TO HER MAJESTY. 



WITH 

A PEEFACE BY THE EEV. Fi D. MAUEICE. 

i 

THE THIRD EDITION. 

LONDON : 

JOHN W. PARKER AND SON, WEST STRAND. 

MDCCCLIX, 



i 



?^ A ! 



& 



6 * 



LONDON : 

SAVILL AND EDWABDS, PKI3STEKS, CHAHDOS STREET, 

COVENT GAEMN. 



Library of Congress 
By transfer from 
State D< 
MAY 3 1 1927 



4' 




PREFACE 

BY THE 

REV. F. D. MAURICE, 



THE writer of this play does not differ with 
his countrymen generally, as to the nature 
and requirements of a Drama. He has learnt 
from our Great Masters that it should exhibit 
human beings engaged in some earnest struggle, 
certain outward aspects of which may possibly 
be a spectacle for the amusement of idlers, but 
which in itself is for the study and the sympathy 
of those who are struggling themselves. A 
Drama, he feels, should not aim at the inculca- 
tion of any definite maxim ; the moral of it lies 
in the action and the character. It must be 
drawn out of them by the heart and experience 
of the reader, not forced upon him by the 

A 2 



IV FKEFACE. 

author. The men and women whom he pre- 
sents are not to be his spokesmen ; they are to 
utter themselves freely in such language, grave 
or mirthful, as best expresses what they feel and 
what they are. The age to which they belong 
is neither to be contemplated as if it were apart 
from us, nor is it to be measured by our rules, 
neither to be held up as a model, nor to be con- 
demned for its strangeness. The passions which 
worked in it must be those which are working 
in ourselves. To the same eternal laws and 
principles are we, and it, amenable. By be- 
holding these a poet is to raise himself, and 
may hope to raise his readers, above antiquarian 
tastes and modern conventions. The unity of 
the play cannot be conferred upon it by any 
artificial arrangements ; it must depend upon 
the relation of the different persons and events 
to the central subject. No nice adjustments of 
success and failure to right and wrong must 
constitute its poetical justice. In some deeper 
way than this, if at all, must the conscience of 
the readers be satisfied that there is an order in 
the universe, and that the poet has perceived 
and asserted it. 



PREFACE. V 

Long before these principles were reduced 
into formal canons of orthodoxy, even while 
they encountered the strong opposition of critics, 
they were unconsciously recognised by English- 
men as sound and national. Yet I question 
whether a clergyman writing in conformity with 
them might not have incurred censure in former 
times, and may not incur it now. The privi- 
lege of expressing his own thoughts, sufferings, 
sympathies, in any form of verse is easily con- 
ceded to him ; if he liked to use a dialogue 
instead of a monologue, for the purpose of en- 
forcing a duty, or illustrating a doctrine, no one 
would find fault with him ; if he produced an 
actual Drama for the purpose of defending or 
denouncing a particular character, or period, or 
system of opinions, the compliments of one party 
might console him for the abuse or contempt of 
another. 

But it seems to be supposed that he is bound 
to keep in view one or other of these ends : 
while to divest himself of his own individuality 
that he may enter into the working of other 
spirits ; to lay aside the authority which pro- 
nounces one opinion, or one habit of mind, to 



VI PREFACE. 

be right and another wrong, that he may exhibit 
them in their actual strife ; to deal with ques- 
tions, not in an abstract shape, but mixed up 
with the affections, passions, relations of human 
creatures — is a course which must lead him, it 
is thought, into a great forgetfulness of his 
office, and of all that is involved in it. 

No one can have less interest than I have in 
claiming poetical privileges for the clergy; and 
no one, I believe, is more thoroughly convinced 
that the standard which society prescribes for 
us, and to which we ordinarily conform our- 
selves, instead of being too severe and lofty, is 
far too secular and grovelling. But I apprehend 
the limitations of this kind which are imposed 
upon us are themselves exceedingly secular, be- 
tokening an entire misconception of the nature 
of our work, proceeding from maxims and habits 
which tend to make it utterly insignificant and 
abortive. If a man confines himself to the utter- 
ance of his own experiences, those experiences 
are likely to become every day more narrow 
and less real. If he confines himself to the 
defence of certain propositions, he is sure 
gradually to lose all sense of the connexion 



PREFACE. Vll 

between those propositions and his own life, or 
the life of man. In either case he becomes 
utterly ineffectual as a teacher. Those whose 
education and character are different from his 
own, whose processes of mind have therefore 
been different, are utterly unintelligible to him. 
Even a cordial desire for sympathy is not able 
to break through the prickly hedge of habits, 
notions, and technicalities, which separates them. 
Oftentimes the desire itself is extinguished in 
those who ought to cherish it most, by the fear 
of meeting with something portentous or dan- 
gerous. Nor can he defend a dogma better 
than he communes with men ; for he knows 
not that which attacks it. He supposes it to 
be a set of book arguments, whereas it is some- 
thing lying very deep in the heart of the dis- 
putant, into which he has never penetrated. 

Hence there is a general complaint that we 
' are ignorant of the thoughts and feelings of our 
contemporaries ; most attribute this to a fear of 
looking below the surface, lest we should find 
hollowness within ; many like to have it so, be- 
cause they have thus an excuse for despising us. 
But surely such an ignorance is more inexcus- 



Vlll PREFACE. 

able in us, than in the priests of any nation : we, 
less than any, are kept from the sun and air ; 
our discipline is less than any contrived merely 
to make us acquainted with the common-places 
of divinity. We are enabled, nay, obliged, from 
our youth upwards, to mix with people of our 
own age, who are destined for all occupations 
and modes of life ; to share in their studies, 
their enjoyments, their perplexities, their tempta- 
tions. Experience, often so dearly bought, is 
surely not meant to be thrown away : whether 
it has been obtained without the sacrifice of that 
which is most precious, or whether the lost bless- 
ing has been restored twofold, and good is 
understood, not only as the opposite of evil, 
but as the deliverance from it, we cannot be 
meant to forget all that we have been learning. 
The teachers of other nations may reasonably 
mock us, as having less of direct book-lore than 
themselves ; they should not be able to say, that 
we are without the compensation of knowing a 
little more of living creatures. 

A clergyman, it seems to me, should be better 
able than other men to cast aside that which 
is merely accidental, either in his own character, 



PREFACE. IX 

or in the character of the age to which he be- 
longs, and to apprehend that which is essential 
and eternal. His acceptance of fixed creeds, 
which belong as much to one generation as 
another, and which have survived amid all 
changes and convulsions, should raise him espe- 
cially above the temptation to exalt the fashion 
of his own time, or of any past one ; above the 
affectation of the obsolete, above slavery to the 
present, and above that strange mixture of both 
which some display, who weep because the 
beautiful visions of the Past are departed, and 
admire themselves for being able to weep over 
them — and dispense with them. His reve- 
rence for the Bible should make him feel 
that we most realize our own personality when 
we most connect it with that of our fellow-men ; 
that acts are not to be contemplated apart 
from the actor ; that more of what is acceptable 
to the God of Truth may come forth in men 
striving with infinite confusion, and often utter- 
ing words like the east-wind, than in those who 
can discourse calmly and eloquently about a 
righteousness and mercy which they know only 
by hearsay. The belief which a minister of God 



X PREFACE. 

has in the eternity of the distinction between 
right and wrong should especially dispose him 
to recognise that distinction apart from mere 
circumstance and opinion. The confidence which 
he must have that the life of each man, and the 
life of this world, is a drama, in which a perfectly 
Good and True Being is unveiling His own pur- 
poses, and carrying on a conflict with evil, which 
must issue in complete victory, should make 
him eager to discover in every portion of history, 
in every biography, a divine c Morality' and 
' Mystery' — a morality, though it deals with no 
abstract personages — a mystery, though the 
subject of it be the doings of the most secular 
men. 

The subject of this Play is certainly a danger- 
ous one. It suggests questions which are deeply 
interesting at the present time. It involves the 
whole character and spirit of the Middle Ages. 
A person who had not an enthusiastic admira- 
tion for the character of Elizabeth would not be 
worthy to speak of her \ it seems to me, that he 
would be still less worthy, if he did not admire 
far more fervently that ideal of the female cha- 
racter which God has established, and not man 



PREFACE. XI 

— which she imperfectly realized— which often 
exhibited itself in her in spite of her own more 
confused, though apparently more lofty, ideal ; 
which may be manifested more simply, and 
therefore more perfectly, in the England of the 
nineteenth century, than in the Germany of the 
thirteenth. To enter into the meaning of self- 
sacrifice — to sympathize with any one who aims 
at it* — not to be misled by counterfeits of it — not 
to be unjust to the truth which may be mixed 
with those counterfeits — is a difficult task, but a 
necessary one for any one who takes this work 
in hand. How far our author has attained these 
ends, others must decide. I am sure that he 
will not have failed from forgetting them. He 
has, I believe, faithfully studied all the docu- 
ments of the period within his reach, making 
little use of modern narratives ; he has medi- 
tated upon the past in its connexion with the 
present ; has never allowed his reading to be- 
come dry by disconnecting it with what he has 
seen and felt, or made his partial experiences a 
measure for the acts which they help him to un- 
derstand. He has entered upon his work at 
least in a true and faithful spirit, not regarding 



Xll PREFACE. 

it as an amusement for leisure hours, but as 
something to be done seriously, if done at all ; 
as if he was as much ' under the Great Task- 
master's eye' in this as in any other duty of his 
calling. In certain passages and scenes he seemed 
to me to have been a little too bold for the 
taste and temper of this age. But having written 
them deliberately, from a conviction that mo- 
rality is in peril from fastidiousness, and that it 
is not safe to look at questions which are really 
agitating people's hearts merely from the out- 
side — he has, and I believe rightly, retained 
what I should from cowardice have wished him 
to exclude. I have no doubt, that any one who 
wins a victory over the fear of opinion, and es- 
pecially over the opinion of the religious world, 
strengthens his own moral character, and ac- 
quires a greater fitness for his high service. 

Whether Poetry is again to revive among us, 
or whether the power is to be wholly stifled by 
our accurate notions about the laws and condi- 
tions under which it is to be exercised, is a ques- 
tion upon which there is room for great differences 
of opinion. Judging from the past, I should sup- 
pose that till Poetry becomes less self-conscious, 



PREFACE. Xlll 

less self-concentrated, more dramatical in spirit, 
if not in form, it will not have the qualities 
which can powerfully affect Englishmen. Not 
only were the Poets of our most national age 
dramatists, but there seems an evident dramati- 
cal tendency in those who wrote what we are 
wont to call narrative, or epic, poems. Take 
away the dramatic faculty from Chaucer, and 
the Canterbury Tales become indeed, what 
they have been most untruly called, mere ver- 
sions of French or Italian Fables. Milton may 
have been right in changing the form of Para- 
dise Lost, — we are bound to believe that he 
was right ; for what appeal can there be against 
his genius ? But he could not destroy the essen- 
tially dramatic character of a work which sets 
forth the battle between good and evil, and the 
"Will of Man at once the Theatre and the Prize 
of the conflict. Is it not true, that there is in 
the very substance of the English mind, that 
which naturally predisposes us to sympathy with 
the Drama, and this though we are perhaps the 
most untheatrical of all people ? The love of 
action, the impatience of abstraction, the equity 
which leads us to desire that every one may have 



XIV PEEFACE. 

a fair hearing, the reserve which had rather 
detect personal experience than have it an- 
nounced — tendencies all easily perverted to 
evil, often leading to results the most contra- 
dictory, yet capable of the noblest cultivation, 
seem to explain the fact, that writers of this 
kind should have flourished so greatly among 
us, and that scarcely any others should perma- 
nently interest us. 

These remarks do not concern poetical 
literature alone, or chiefly. Those habits of 
mind, of which I have spoken, ought to make 
us the best historians. If Germany has a 
right to claim the whole realm of the abstract, 
if Frenchmen understand the framework of 
society better than we do, there is in the 
national dramas of Shakspeare an historical 
secret, which neither the philosophy of the 
one nor the acute observation of the other can 
discover. Yet these dramas are almost the only 
satisfactory expression of that historical faculty 
which I believe is latent in us. The zeal of our 
factions, a result of our national activity, has 
made earnest history dishonest : our English 
justice has fled to indifferent and sceptical 



PREFACE. XV 

writers for the impartiality which it sought in 
vain elsewhere. This resource has failed, — the 
indifferentism of Hume could not secure him 
against his Scotch prejudices, or against gross 
unfairness when anything disagreeably positive 
and vehement came in his way. Moreover, a 
practical people demand movement and life, 
.not mere judging and balancing. For a time 
there was a reaction in favour of party history, 
but it could not last long ; already we are glad 
to seek in Ranke or Michelet that which seems 
denied us at home. Much, no doubt, may be 
gained from such sources ; but I am convinced 
that this is not the produce which we are meant 
generally to import ; for this we may trust to 
well-directed native industry. The time is, I 
hope, at hand, when those who are most in 
earnest will feel that therefore they are most 
bound to be just — when they will confess the 
exceeding wickedness of the desire to distort or 
suppress a fact, or misrepresent a character — 
when they will ask as solemnly to be delivered 
from the temptation to this, as to any crime 
which is punished by law. 

The clergy ought especially to lead the way 



XVI PREFACE. 

in this reformation. They have erred grievously 
in perverting history to their own purposes. 
What was a sin in others was in them a blas- 
phemy, because they professed to acknowledge 
God as the Ruler of the world, and hereby they 
showed that they valued their own conclusions 
above the facts which reveal His order. They 
owe, therefore, a great amende to their country, 
and they should consider seriously how they can 
make it most effectually. I look upon this Play 
as an effort in this direction, which I trust may 
be followed by many more. On this ground 
alone, even if its poetical worth was less than I 
believe it is, I should, as a clergyman, be thank- 
ful for its publication. 

F. D. M. 



INTRODUCTION. 



HH HE story which I have here put into a dramatic 
"*- form is one familiar to Romanists, and perfectly 
and circumstantially authenticated. Abridged ver- 
sions of it, carefully softened and sentimentalized, may 
be read in any Komish collection of Lives of the Saints. 
An enlarged edition has been published in France, I 
believe by Count Montalembert, and translated, with 
illustrations, by an English gentleman, which ad- 
mits certain miraculous legends, of later date, and, 
like other prodigies, worthless to the student of 
human character. From consulting this work I have 
hitherto abstained, in order that I might draw my 
facts and opinions, entire and unbiassed, from the ori- 
ginal Biography of Elizabeth, by Dietrich of Appold, 
her contemporary, as given entire by Canisius. 

Dietrich was born in Thuringia, near the scene of 
Elizabeth's labours, a few years before her death, had 
conversed with those who had seen her, and calls to 

B 



18 INTRODUCTION. 

witness c God and the elect angels, that he had in- 
serted nothing butwhat he had either understood from 
religious and veracious persons, or read in approved 
writings, viz., ' The Book of the Sayings of Elizabeth's 
Four Ladies. (Guta, Isentrudis, and two others!)' 
''The Letter which Conrad of Mar pur g, her Director , 
wrote to Pope Gregory the Ninth' (These two docu- 
ments still exist.) ' The Sermon of Otto,' (de Ordine 
Freddie.) ' which begins thus, Mulierem fortem.' 

6 Not satisfied with these,' he c visited monasteries, 
castles, and towns, interrogated the most aged and 
veracious persons, and wrote letters, seeking for com- 
pleteness and truth in all things ;' and thus composed 
his biography, from which that in Surius (Acta Sanc- 
torum), Jacobus de Voragine, Alban Butler, and all 
others which I have seen, are copied with a very few 
additions and many prudent omissions. 

Wishing to adhere strictly to historical truth, I have 
followed the received account, not only in the incidents, 
but often in the language which it attributes to its 
various characters ; and have given in the Notes all 
necessary references to the biography in Canisius's 
collection. My part has therefore been merely to show 
how the conduct of my heroine was not only possible, 
but to a certain degree necessary, for a character of 
earnestness and piety such as hers, working under the 
influences of the Middle Age. 



INTRODUCTION. 19 

In deducing fairly, from the phenomena of her life, 
the character of Elizabeth, she necessarily became a 
type of two great mental struggles of the Middle Age; 
first, of that between Scriptural or unconscious, and 
Popish or conscious, purity : in a word, between inno- 
cence and prudery ; next, of the struggle between 
healthy human affection, and theManichean contempt 
with which a celibate clergy would have all men regard 
the names of husband, wife, and parent. To exhibit 
this latter falsehood in its miserable consequences, 
when received into a heart of insight and determina- 
tion sufficient to follow out all belief to its ultimate 
practice, is the main object of my Poem. That a most 
degrading and agonizing contradiction on these points 
must have existed in the mind of Elizabeth, and of all 
who with similar characters shall have found them- 
selves under similar influences, is a necessity that 
must be evident to all who know anything of the 
deeper affections of men. In the idea of a mar- 
ried Eomish saint, these miseries should follow 
logically from the Eomish view of human relations. 
In Elizabeth's case their existence is proved equally 
logically from the acknowledged facts of her conduct. 

I may here observe, that if I have in no case made 
her allude to the Virgin Mary, and exhibited the sense 
of infinite duty and loyalty to Christ alone, as the 
mainspring of all her noblest deeds, it is merely in 

b 2 



20 INTRODUCTION. 

accordance with Dietrich's biography. The omission 
of all Mariolatry is remarkable. My business is to 
copy that omission, as I should in the opposite 
case have copied the introduction of Virgin-wor- 
ship into the original tale. The business of those 
who make Mary, to women especially, the com- 
plete substitute for the Saviour, — I had almost 
said, for all Three Persons of the Trinity, is to 
explain, if they can, her non-appearance in this case. 
Lewis, again, I have drawn as I found him, pos- 
sessed of all virtues but those of action ; in know- 
ledge, in moral courage, in spiritual attainment, 
infinitely inferior to his wife, and depending on 
her to be taught to pray ; giving her higher facul- 
ties nothing to rest on in himself, and leaving the 
noblest offices of a husband to be supplied by a 
spiritual director. He thus becomes a type of 
the husbands of the Middle Age, and of the 
woman-worship of chivalry. Woman-worship, 'the 
honour due to the weaker vessel,' is indeed of 
God, and woe to the nation and to the man in whom 
it dies. But in the Middle Age, this feeling had no 
religious root, by which it could connect itself ra- 
tionally, either with actual wedlock or with the noble 
yearnings of men's spirits, and it therefore could not 
but die down into a semi-sensual dream of female-saint- 
worship, or fantastic idolatry of mere physical beauty, 



INTRODUCTION. 21 

leaving tbe women themselves an easy prey to the 
intellectual allurements of the more educated and 
subtle priesthood. 

In Conrad's case, again, I have fancied that I dis- 
cover in the various notices of his life, a noble nature 
warped and blinded by its unnatural exclusions from 
those family ties through which we first discern or 
describe God and our relations to Him, and forced to 
concentrate his whole faculties in the service, not so 
much of a God of Truth as of a Catholic system. In 
his character will be found, I hope, some implicit 
apology for the failings of such truly great men as 
Dunstan, Becket, and Dominic, and of many more 
whom, if we hate, we shall never understand, while 
we shall be but too likely, in our own way, to copy 
them. 

Walter of Varila, a more fictitious character, re- 
presents the 6 healthy animalism' of the Teutonic 
mind, with its mixture of deep earnestness and hearty 
merriment. His dislike of priestly sentimentalities 
is no anachronism. Even in his day, a noble lay- 
religion, founded on faith in the divine and universal 
symbolism of humanity and nature, was gradually 
arising, and venting itself, from time to time, as I 
conceive, through many most unsuspected channels, 
through chivalry, through the minne-singers, through 
the lay -inventors, or rather importers, of pointed 



22 INTRODUCTION. 

architecture, through the German school of painting, 
through the politics of the free towns, till it attained 
complete freedom, in Luther and his associate 
reformers. 

For my fantastic quotations of Scripture, if they 
shall be deemed irreverent, I can only say, that they 
were the fashion of the time, from prince to peasant — 
that there is scarcely one of them, with which I have 
not actually met in the writings of the period — that 
those writings abound with misuse of Scripture, far 
more coarse, arbitrary, and ridiculous, than any which 
I have dared to insert — that I had no right to omit 
so radical a characteristic of the Middle Age. 

For the more coarse and homely passages with 
which the drama is interspersed, I must make the 
same apology. I put them there because they were 
there — because the Middle Age was, in the gross, a 
coarse, barbarous, and profligate age — because it was 
necessary, in order to bring out fairly the beauty of 
the central character, to show ' the crooked and per- 
verse generation,' in which she was ' a child of God 
without rebuke.' It was, in fact, the very ferocity 
and foulness of the time which by a natural revulsion, 
called forth at the same time, the apostolic holiness, 
and the Manichean asceticism, of the Medieval Saints. 
The world was so bad, that to be Saints at all, they 
were compelled to go out of the world. It was neces- 



INTRODUCTION. 23 

sary, moreover, in depicting the poor man's patroness, 
to show the material on which she worked ; and those 
who know the poor, know also that we can no more 
judge truly of their characters in the presence of their 
benefactors, than we can tell by seeing clay in the 
potter's hands, what it was in its native pit. These 
scenes have, therefore, been laid principally in Eliza- 
beth's absence, in order to preserve their only use 
and meaning. 

So rough and common life a picture of the Mid- 
dle Age, will, I am afraid, whether faithful or not, 
be far from acceptable to those who take their notions 
of that period principally from such exquisite dreams 
as the fictions of Fouque, and of certain moderns 
whose graceful minds, like some enchanted well, 

In whose calm depths the. pure and beautiful 
Alone are mirrored, 

are, on account of their very sweetness and simplicity, 
singularly unfitted to convey any true likeness of the 
coarse and stormy Middle Age. I have been already 
accused, by others than Komanists, of profaning this 
whole subject — i. e., of telling the whole truth, pleasant 
or not, about it. But really, time enough has been 
lost in ignorant abuse of that period, and time enough, 
also, lately, in blind adoration of it. When shall we 
learn to see it as it was ? — the dawning manhood of 
Europe — rich with all the tenderness, the simplicity, 



24 INTRODUCTION. 

the enthusiasm of youth — but also darkened, alas ! 
with its full share of youth's precipitance and extra- 
vagance, fierce passions, and blind self-will — its vir- 
tues and its vices colossal, and, for that very reason, 
always haunted by the twin-imp of the colossal — the 
caricatured. 

Lastly, the many miraculous stories which the 
biographer of Elizabeth relates of her, I had no right, 
for the sake of truth, to interweave in the plot, while 
it was necessary to indicate, at least, their existence. 
I have, therefore, put such of them as seemed least 
absurd into the mouth of Conrad, to whom, in fact, 
they owe their original publication, and have done 
so, as I hope, not without a just ethical purpose. 

Such was my idea: of the inconsistencies and short- 
comings of this its realization, no one can ever be so 
painfully sensible, as I am already myself. If, how- 
ever, this book shall cause one Englishman honestly 
to ask himself, ' I, as a Protestant, have been accus- 
tomed to assert the purity and dignity of the offices of 
husband, wife, and parent. Have I ever examined 
the grounds of my own assertion ? Do I believe them 
to be as callings from God, spiritual, sacramental, 
divine, eternal ? Or am I at heart regarding and 
using them, like the Papist, merely as heaven's indul- 
gences to the infirmities of fallen man ?' Then will 
my book have done its work. 



INTRODUCTION. 25 

If, again, it shall deter one young man from the 
example of those miserable dilettanti, who in books 
and sermons are whimpering meagre second-hand 
praises of celibacy, — depreciating as carnal and de- 
grading those family ties to which they owe their own 
existence, and in the enjoyment of which they them- 
selves all the while unblushingly indulge — insulting 
thus their own wives and mothers — nibbling igno- 
rantly at the very root of that household purity, 
which constitutes the distinctive superiority of Pro- 
testant over Popish nations : — again my book will 
have done its work. 

If, lastly, it shall awaken one pious Protestant to 
recognise, in some, at least, of the Saints of the Middle 
Age, beings not only of the same passions, but of the 
same Lord, the same faith, the same baptism, as 
themselves, Protestants, not the less deep and true, 
because utterly unconscious and practical — mighty 
witnesses against the two antichrists of their age — the 
tyranny of feudal caste, and the phantoms which 
Popery substitutes for the living Christ — then also 
will my little book indeed have done its work. 

C. K. 

1848. 



THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 






CHAEACTEES. 



Vassals of Lewis. 



Elizabeth, daughter of the King of Hungary. 

Lewis, Landgrave of Thuringia, betrothed to her in 
childhood. 

Henry, brother of Lewis. 

Walter, of Varila, 

Eudole, the Cupbearer, 

Leutole, of Erlstetten, 

Hartwig, ofLJrba, 

Count Hugo, 

Count oe Satm, &c. J 

Conrad, of Marpurg, a Monk, the Pope's Com- 
missioner for the suppression of heresy. 

Gerard, his Chaplain. 

Bishop oe Bamberg, uncle of Elizabeth, Sfc. Sfc. 

Sophta, Dowager Landgravine. 

Agnes, her daughter, sister of Lewis. 

Isentrudis, Elizabeth' ] s nurse. 

Gut a, her favourite maiden. 

&c. &c. &c. 



The Scene lies principally in Eisenach, and the 
Wartburg ; changing afterwards to Bamberg, and 
finally to Marpurg. 



PK0EM. 



(Epimetheus.) 

I. 
Wake again, Teutonic Father-ages, 

Speak again, beloved primaeval creeds ; 
Plash ancestral spirit from your pages, 

Wake the greedy age to noble deeds. 

ii. 
Tell us, how of old our saintly mothers 

Schooled themselves by vigil, fast, and prayer ; 
Learnt to love as Jesus loved before them, 

While they bore the cross which poor men bear. 

in. 

Tell us how our stout crusading fathers 

Fought and died for God, and not for gold ; 

Let their love, their faith, their boyish daring, 
Distance-mellowed, gild the days of old. 

IV. 

Tell us how the sexless workers, thronging, 
Angel-tended, round the convent doors, 

Wrought to Christian faith and holy order 
Savage hearts alike and barren moors. 



30 PROEM. 



Ye who built the churches where we worship, 
Ye who framed the laws by which we move, 

Fathers, long belied, and long forsaken, 
Oh ! forgive the children of your love ! 



(Prometheus.) 

i. 

Speak ! but ask us not to be as ye were ! 

All but God is changing day by day. 
He who breathes on man the plastic spirit, 

Bids us mould ourselves its robe of clay. 

ii. 

Old anarchic floods of revolution, 

Drowning ill and good alike in night, 

Sink, and bare the wrecks of ancient labour, 
Fossil-teeming, to the searching light ! 

in. 

There will we find laws, which shall interpret, 
Through the simpler past, existing life ; 

Delving up from mines and fairy caverns 
Charmed blades, to cut the age's strife. 



PROEM. 31 

IT. 

"What though fogs may stream from draining waters? 

We will till the clays to mellow loam ; 
Wake the grave-yard of our father's spirits ; 

Clothe its crumbling mounds with blade and bloom. 

Y. 

Old decays but foster new creations ; 

Bones and ashes feed the golden corn ; 
Fresh elixirs wander every moment, 

Down the veins through which the live past feeds 
its child, the live unborn. 



##1 



THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. a.d. 1220. 

The Doorway of a closed Chapel in the Wartlurg. 
Elizabeth sitting on the Steps. 

Eliz. Baby Jesus, who dost lie 
Far above that stormy sky, 
In Thy mother's pure caress, 
Stoop and save the motherless. 

Happy birds ! whom Jesus leaves 
Underneath his sheltering eaves ; 
There they go to play and sleep, 
May not I go in to weep ? 

All without is mean and small, 
All within is vast and tall ; 
All without is harsh and shrill, 
All within is hushed and still. 



34 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Jesus, let me enter in, 
Wrap me safe from noise and sin ; 
Let me list the angels' songs, 
See the picture of Thy wrongs ; 

Let me kiss Thy wounded feet, 
Drink Thine incense, faint and sweet, 
While the clear bells call Thee down 
From Thine everlasting throne. 

At Thy door-step low I bend, 
Who have neither kin nor friend ; 
Let me here a shelter find, 
Shield the shorn lamb from the wind. 

Jesu, Lord, my heart will break, 
Save me for Thy great love's sake ! 

Enter Isentrudis. 

Isen. Aha ! I had missed my little bird from the 
nest, 
And judged thatshe was here. What's this? fie, tears? 

Eliz, Go ! you despise me like the rest. 

Isen. Despise you ? 

What's here ? King Andrew's child ? St. John's 

sworn maid ? 
Who dares despise you ? Out upon these Saxons ! 
They sang another note when I was younger, 
When from the rich East came my queenly pearl, 



scene i.] THE SAItfT'S TRAGEDY. 35 

Lapt on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroes 
Eode by her side, and far behind us stretched 
The barbs and sumptefmules, a royal train, 
Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems, 
Wedges of gold, and furniture of silver, 
Fit for my princess. 

JEliz. Hush now, I've heard all, nurse, 

A thousand times. 

Isen. Oh, how their hungry mouths 

Did water at the booty ! Such a prize, 
Since the three Kings came wandering into Coin, 
They ne'er saw, nor their fathers ; — well they knew it ! 
Oh, how they fawned on us ! " Great Isentrudis !" 
" Sweet babe !" The Landgravine did thank her saints 
As if you, or your silks, had fallen from heaven ; 
And now she wears your furs, and calls us gipsies. 
Come tell your nurse your griefs ; we'll weep together, 
Strangers in this strange land ! 

Eliz. I am most friendless. 

The Landgravine and Agnes — you may see them 
Begrudge the food I eat, and call me friend 
Of knaves and serving maids ; the burly knights 
Freeze me with cold blue eyes : no saucy page 
But points and whispers, " There goes our pet nun ; 
Would but her saintship leave her gold behind, 
We'd give herself her furlough." Save me ! save me ! 
All here are ghastly dreams ; dead masks of stone, 

c2 






36 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDr. [act i. 

And you and I, and Guta, only live : 

Your eyes alone have souls. I shall go mad ! 

Oh ! that they would but leave me all alone, 

To teach poor girls, and work within my chamber, 

With mine own thoughts, and all the gentle angels 

Which glance about my dreams at morning-tide ; 

Then I should be as happy as the birds 

Which sing at my bower window. Once I longed 

To be beloved, — now would they but forget me ! 

Most vile I must be, or they could not hate me ! 

Isen. They are of this world, thou art not, poor 
child, 
Therefore they hate thee, as they did thy betters. 

JEliz. But, Lewis, nurse ? 

Isen. He, child ? he is thy knight ; 

Espoused from childhood : thou hast a claim upon him. 
One that thou'lt need, alas ! — though, I remember — 
'Tis fifteen years agone — when in one cradle 
We laid two fair babes for a marriage token ; 
And when your lips met, then you smiled, and twined 
Your little limbs together. — Pray the Saints 
That token stand ! — He calls thee love and sister, 
And brings thee gew-gaws from the wars: that's much! 
At least he's thine if thou love him. 

Eliz. If I love him ? 

What is this love ? Why, is he not my brother 
And I his sister ? Till these weary wars, 
The one of us without the other never 



scene i.] THE saint's tragedy. 37 

Did weep or laugh : what is't should change us 

now ? 
You shake your head and smile. 

Isen. Go to ; the chafe 

Comes not by wearing chains, but feeling them. 

Uliz. Alas ! here comes a knight across the court ; 
0, hide me, nurse ! What's here ? this door is fast. 

Isen. Nay, 'tis a friend : he brought my princess 
hither, 
Walter of Yarila ; I feared him once — 
He used to mock our state, and say, good wine 
Should want no bush, and that the cage was gay, 
But that the bird must sing before he praised it. 
Yet he's a kind heart, while his bitter tongue 
Awes these court popinjays at times to manners. 
He will smile sadly too, when he meets my maiden ; 
And once he said, he was your liegeman sworn, 
Since my lost mistress, weeping, to his charge 
Trusted the babe she saw no more. — Grod help us ! 

Uliz. How did my mother die, nurse ? 

Isen. She died, my child. 

Miz. But how ? Why turn away ? 

Too long I've guessed at some dread mystery 
I may not hear : and in my restless dreams, 
Night after night, sweeps by a frantic rout 
Of grinning fiends, fierce horses, bodiless hands, 
Which clutch at one to whom my spirit yearns 
As to a mother. There's some fearful tie 



38 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Between me and that spirit- world, which God 
Brands with His terrors on my troubled mind. 
Speak ! tell me, nurse ! is she in heaven or hell ? 

Isen. God knows, my child : there are masses for 
her soul, 
Each day in every Zingar minster sung. 

Eliz. But was she holy ? — Died she in the Lord ? 

Isen. (weeps.) Oh, God ! my child ! And if I 
told thee all, 
How couldst thou mend it ? 

Miz. Mend it ? Oh, my Saviour ! 

I'd die a saint ! 
"Win heaven for her by prayers, and build great 

minsters, 
Chantries, and hospitals for her ; wipe out 
By mighty deeds our race's guilt and shame — 
But thus, poor witless orphan ! ( Weeps.) 

Count Walter enters. 

Wal. Ah ! my princess ! accept your liegeman's 
knee ; 
Down, down, rheumatic flesh ! 

Eliz. Ah ! Count Walter ! you are too tall to 

kneel to little girls. 
Wal. What ? shall two hundred weight of hypo- 
crisy bow down to his four-inch wooden saint, and 
the same weight of honesty not worship his four-foot 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 39 

live one ? And I have a jest for you, shall make my 
small queen merry and wise. 

Isen. You shall jest long before she's merrj^. 

Wal. Ah ! dowers and dowagers again ! The 
money — root of all evil. 
What comes here ? [A Page enters, 

A long-winged grasshopper, all gold, green, and 
gauze ? How these young pea-chicks must needs 
ape the grown peacock's frippery ! Prithee, now, 
how many such butterflies as you suck here together 
on the thistle-head of royalty ? 

Page. Some twelve gentlemen of us, Sir — apostles 
of the blind archer, Love — owning no divinity but 
almighty beauty — no faith, no hope, no charity, but 
those which are kindled at her eyes. 

Wal. Saints ! what's all this ? 

Page. Ah, Sir ! none but countrymen swear by the 
saints now-a-days : no oaths but allegorical ones, 
Sir, at the high table ; as thus, — " By the sleeve of 
beauty, Madam ;" or again, "By Love his martyr- 
doms, Sir Count ;" or to a potentate, " As Jove's im- 
perial merc}^ shall hear my vows, High Mightiness." 

Wal. Where did the evil one set you on finding 
all this heathenry ? 

Page. Oh ! we are all barristers of Love's court 
Sir, — we have Ovid's gay science conned, Sir, ad un- 
guentum, as they say, out of the French book. 



40 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Wal. So ? There are those come from Rome then 
will whip you and Ovid out with the same rod which 
the dandies of Provence felt lately to their sorrow. 
Oh ! what blinkards are we gentlemen, to train any 
dumb beasts more carefully than we do Christians ; 
that a man shall keep his dog-breakers, and his horse- 
breakers, and his hawk-breakers, and never hire him 
a boy-breaker or two ! that we should live without a 
qualm at dangling such a flock of mimicking parro- 
quets at our heels awhile, and then when they are well 
infected, well perfumed with the wind of our vices, 
dropping them off, as tadpoles do their tails, joint by 
joint, into the mud! to strain at such gnats as an 
ill-mouthed colt or a riotous puppy, and swallow 
that camel of camels, a page ! 

Page. Do you call me a camel, Sir ? 

Wal. What's your business ? 

Page. My errand is to the princess here. 

Mix. To me ? 

Page. Yes ; the Landgravine expects you at high 
mass; so go in, and mind you clean yourself; for 
every one is not as fond as you of beggars' brats, and 
what their clothes leave behind them. 

Isen. {Strikes him.) Monkey ! To whom are you 
speaking ? 

Eliz. Oh, peace, peace, peace ! I'll go with him. 

Page. Then be quick, my music-master's waiting. 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 41 

Corpo di Bacco ! as if our elders did not teach us to 
whom we ought to be rude ! [Ex. Eliz. and Page. 

Isen. See here, Sir Saxon, how this pearl of price 
Is faring in your hands ! The peerless image, 
To whom this court is but the tawdry frame, — 
The speck of light amid its murky baseness, — 
The salt which keeps it all from rotting, — cast 
To be the common fool, — the laughing-stock 
For every beardless knave to whet his wit on ! 
Tar-blooded Germans ! — Here's another of them. 

[A young Knight enters. 

Knight. Heigh ! Count ! What ? learning to sing 
psalms ? They are waiting 
For you in the manage-school, bo give your judgment 
On that new Norman mare. 

Wal. Tell them I'm busy. 

Knight. Busy ? St. Martin ! Knitting stock- 
ings, eh ? 
To clothe the poor withal ? Is that your business ? 
I passed that canting baby on the stairs ; 
Would heaven that she had tripped, and broke her 

goose-neck, 
And left us heirs de facto. So, farewell. [Exit. 

Wal. A very pretty quarrel ! matter enough 
To spoil a waggon load of ash-staves on, 
And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlcts. 
What's Lewis doing ? 



■ ■--■ " 



42 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Isen. Oh — Befooled, — 

Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot 
Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel 
Sticks at his miry heels. 

Wal. The boy's no fool, — 

As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given 
To hunt the nearest butterfly, and light 
The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it 
The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear on't. 

Isen, And quickly, for there's treason in the wind. 
They'll keep her dower, and send her home with shame 
Before the year's out. 

Wal. Humph ! Some are rogues enough for't. As 
it falls out, I ride with him to-day. 

Isen. Upon what business ? 

Wal. Some shaveling has been telling him that 
there are heretics on his land : stadings, worshippers 
of black cats, baby-eaters, and such like. He con- 
sulted me ; I told him it would be time enough to 
see to the heretics, when all the good Christians had 
been well looked after. I suppose the novelty of the 
thing smit him, for now nothing will serve but I 
must ride with him round half a dozen hamlets, 
where, with God's help, I will show him a mansty 
or two, that shall astonish his delicate chivalry. 

Isen. Oh, here's your time ! Speak to him, noble 
Walter. 






scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, 43 

Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace ; 

Prick his dull heart with shame at his own coldness. 

Oh, right us, Count. 

Wal. I will, I will : go in 

And dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately. 



Scene II. 

A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter 
riding. 

Lew. So all these lands are mine ; these yellow 
meads — 
These village-greens, and forest-fretted hills, 
With dizzy castles crowned. Mine ? Why that word 
Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt. 
What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride 
Can these things fatten ? Mass ! I had forgot : 
I have a right to bark at trespassers. 
Rare privilege ! While every fowl and bush, 
According to its destiny and nature, 
(Which were they truly mine, my power could alter) 
Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me. 
Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks 
The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat, 
If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows 
The pale, shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds 






44 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, [act i. 

Into an age of sleep, 'twere something : and those men 

O'er whom that one word ' ownership' uprears me — 

If I could make them lift a finger up 

But of their own free will, I'd own my seizin. 

But now — when if I sold them, life and limb, 

There's not a sow would litter one pig less 

Than when men called her mine. — Possession's 

naught ; 
A parchment ghost ; a word I am ashamed 
To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits, 
And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers, 
Should mock, and cry, ' Yain man, not thine, but 
ours,' 
Wal. Possession's naught ? Possession's beef and 
ale — 
Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel. — Are they 

naught ? 
Possession means to sit astride of the world, 
Instead of having it astride of you ; 
Is that naught ? 'Tis the easiest trade of all too ; 
For he that's fit for nothing else, is fit 
To own good land, and on the slowest dolt 
His state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best. 
Lew. How now ? What need then of long disci- 
pline 
Not to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul ; 
To courtesies and high self-sacrifice, 



scene ii ] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 45 

To order and obedience, and the grace 

Which makes commands, requests, and service, favour? 

To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turned 

To that Valhalla, where the virgin saints 

And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven ? 

Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox 

To chew the grass cut for me ? 

Wal. Why ? Because 

I have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler. 
All callings want their proper 'prentice time 
But this of ruling ; it comes by mother-wit ; 
And if the wit be not exceeding great, 
'Tis best the wit be most exceeding small ; 
And he that holds the reins, should let the horse 
Range on, feed where he will, live and let live. 
Custom and selfishness will keep all steady 
For half a life. — Six months before you die 
You may begin to think of interfering. 

Lew. Alas ! while each day blackens with fresh 
clouds, 
Complaints of ague, fever, crumbling huts, 
Of land thrown out to the forest, game and keepers, 
Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike ; 
Need, greed, stupidity : To clear such ruin 
Would task the rich prime of some noble hero — 
But can I nothing do ? 

Wal. Oh ! plenty, Sir ; 



46 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act t. 

Which no man yet has done or e'er will do. 

It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured ; 

It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly ; 

It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn ; 

It rests with you, whether those toiling peasants 

Lift to their masters free and loyal eyes, 

Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves. 

It rests with you — and will rest. 

Lew. I'll crowd my court and dais with men of God, 
As doth my peerless name-sake, King of France. 

Wal. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two 
counsellors 
Worth any drove of priests. 

Lew. And who are they ? 

Wal. God and his lady-love. (Aside.} He'll open 
at that — 

Lew. I could be that man's squire. 

Wal. (Aside.) Again run riot — 

Now for another cast; (Aloud?) If you'd sleep 

sound, Sir, 
You'll let priests pray for you, but school you never. 

Lew, Mass ? who more fitted ? 

Wal. None, if you could trust them ; 

But they are the people's creatures; poor men give 

them 
Their power at the Church, and take it back at the 
ale-house : 



scene ii.] THE saint's tragedy. 47 

Then what's the friar to the starving peasant ? 
Just what the abbot is to the greedy noble — 
A scarecrow to lear wolves. Go ask the churchplate, 
Safe in knight's cellars, how these priests are feared. 
Bruised reeds when you most need them. — No, my 

Lord; 
Copy them, trust them never. 

Lew. Copy ? wherein ? 

Wal. In letting every man 

Do what he likes, and only seeing he does it 
As you do your work — well. That's the Church secret 
For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer ; 
Example, but no meddling. See that hollow — 
I knew it once all heath, and deep peat-bog — 
I drowned a black mare in that self-same spot 
Hunting with your good father : Well, he gave it 
One jovial night, to six poor Erfurt monks — 
Six picked-visaged, wan, bird-fingered wights — 
All in their rough hair shirts, like hedgehogs starved — 
I told them, six weeks' work would break their 

hearts : 
They answered, Christ would help, and Christ's great 

mother, 
And make them strong when weakest : So they 

settled : 
And starved and froze. 

Lew. And dug and built, it seems. 



48 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Wal. Faith, that's true. See — as garden walls 

draw snails, 

They have drawn a hamlet round ; the slopes are blue 

Knee-deep with flax, the orchard boughs are breaking 

With strange outlandish fruits ; See those young 

rogues 
Marching to school ; no poachers here, Lord Land- 
grave, — 
Too much to be done at home ; there's not a village 
Of yours, now, thrives like this ; By God's good help 
These men have made their ownership worth some- 
thing. 
Here comes one of them. 

Lew. I would speak to him — 

And learn his secret — We'll await him here. 



Enter Conkad. 

Con. Peace to you, reverend and war-worn knight, 
And you, fair youth, upon whose swarthy lip 
Blooms the rich promise of a noble manhood. 
Methinks, if simple monks may read your thoughts, 
That with no envious or distasteful eyes 
Ye watch the labours of God's poor elect. 

Wal. Why — we were saying, how you cunning 
rooks 
Pitch as by instinct on the fattest fallows. . 



scene il] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 49 

Con. For He who feeds the ravens, promiseth 
Our bread and water sure, and leads us on 
By peaceful streams in pastures green to lie, 
Beneath our Shepherd's eye. 

Lew. In such a nook, now, 

To nestle from this noisy world — 

Con. — And drop 

The burden of thyself upon the threshold. 

Lew. Think what rich dreams may haunt those 
lowly roofs ! 

Con. Bich dreams, — and more ; their dreams will 
find fulfilment— 
Their discipline breeds strength — 'Tis we alone 
Can join the patience of the labouring ox 
Unto the eagle's foresight, — not a fancy 
Of ours, but grows in time to mighty deeds ; 
Victories in heavenly warfare: but yours, yours, 

Sir, 
Oh choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth, 
Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains, 
Cast by for the next bauble ! 

Lew. 'Tis too true! 

I dread no toil: toil is the true knight's pastime — 
Faith fails, the will intense and fixed, so easy 
To thee, cut off from life and love, whose powers 
In one close channel must condense their stream : 
But I, to whom this life blooms rich and busy, 

D 



50 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Whose heart goes out a-Maying all the year 
In this new Eden — in my fitful thought 
What skill is there, to turn my faith to sight — 
To pierce blank Heaven, like some trained falconer 
After his game, beyond all human ken ? 

Wal. And walk into the bog beneath your feet. 

Con. And change it to firm land by magic step ! 
Build there cloud- cleaving spires, beneath whose 

shade 
Great cities rise for vassals ; to call forth 
From plough and loom the rank unlettered hinds, 
And make them saints and heroes — send them forth 
To sway with heavenly craft the spirit of princes ; 
Change nations' destinies, and conquer worlds 
With love, more mighty than the sword ; what, 

Count ? 
Art thou ambitious ? practical ? we monks 
Can teach you somewhat there too. 

Lew. Be it so ; 

But love you have forsworn ; and what were life 
Without that chivalry, which bends man's knees 
Before God's image and his glory, best 
Revealed in woman's beauty ? 

Con. Ah ! poor worldlings ! 

Little you dream what maddening ecstacies, 
What rich ideals haunt, by day and night, 
Alone, and in the crowd, even to the death, 



scene II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 51 

The servitors of that celestial court 

Where peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns, 

In whom all Eden dreams of womanhood, 

All grace of form, hue, sound, all beauty strewn 

Like pearls unstrung, about this ruined world, 

Have their fulfilment and their archetype. 

Why hath the rose its scent, the lily grace ? 

To mirror forth her loveliness, from whom, 

Primeval fount of grace, their livery came : 

Pattern of Seraphs ! only worthy ark 

To bear her God athwart the floods of time ! 

Lew. Who dare aspire to her ? Alas, not I ! 
To me she is a doctrine, and a picture : — 
I cannot live on dreams. 

Con. She hath her train : — 

There thou may'st choose thy love : If world-wide lore 
Shall please thee, and the Cherub's glance of fire, 
Let Catharine lift thy soul, and rapt with her 
Question the mighty dead, until thou float 
Tranced on the ethereal ocean of her spirit. 
If pity father passion in thee, hang 
Above Eulalia's tortured loveliness ; 
And for her sake, and in her strength, go forth 
To do and suffer greatly. Dost thou long 
For some rich heart, as deep in love as weakness, 
Whose wild simplicity sweet heaven-born instincts 
Alone keep sane ? 

d 2 



l.,Lltl 



52 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Lew. I do, I do. I'd live 

And die for each and all the three. 

Con. Then go — 

Entangled in the Magdalen's tresses lie ; 
Dream hours before her picture, till thy lips 
Dare to approach her feet, and thou shalt start 
To find the canvas warm with life, and matter 
A moment transubstantiate to heaven. 

Wal. Ay, catch his fever, Sir, and learn to take 
An indigestion for a troop of angels. 
Come tell him, monk, about your magic gardens, 
Where not a stringy head of kale is cut 
But breeds a vision or a revelation. 

Lew. Hush, hush, Count ! Speak, strange monk, 
strange words, and waken 
Longings more strange than either. 

Con. Then, if proved, 

As I dare vouch thee, loyal in thy love, 
Even to the Queen herself thy saintlier soul 
At length may soar : perchance — Oh, bliss too great 
For thought — yet possible ! 
Eeceive some token — smile — or hallowing touch 
Of that white hand, beneath whose soft caress 
The raging world is smoothed, and runs its course 
To shadow forth her glory. 

Lew. Thou dost tempt me — 

That were a knightly quest. 



scene il] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 53 

Con, Ay, here's true love. 

Love's heaven, without its hell ; the golden fruit 
Without the foul husk, which at Adam's fall 
Did crust it o'er with filth and selfishness. 
I tempt thee heavenward — from yon azure walls 
Unearthly beauties beckon — God's own mother 
Waits longing for thy choice — 

Lew. Is this a dream ? 

Wal. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you ! 
Will you be cozened, sir, by these air-blown fancies, 
These male hysterics, by starvation bred 
And huge conceit ? Cast off God's gift of man- 
hood, 
And like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone 
With snapping at the sham one in the water ? 
What were you born a man for ? 

Lew. Ay, I know it : — 

I cannot live on dreams. Oh, for one friend, 
Myself, yet not myself ; one not so high 
But she could love me, not too pure to pardon 
My sloth and meanness ! Oh ! for flesh and blood, 
Before whose feet I could adore, yet love ! 
How easy then were duty ! From her lips 
To learn my daily task ;— in her pure eyes 
To see the living type of those heaven-glories 
I dare not look on ;— let her work her will 
Of love and wisdom on these straining hinds ; — 






54 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

To squire a saint around her labour field, 

And she and it both mine :■ — That were possession ! 

Con. The flesh, fair youth — 

Wal. Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt ! 

We are past your burrow now. Come, come, Lord 

Landgrave, 
Look round, and find your saint. 

Lew. . Alas ! one such — 

One such, I know, who upward from one cradle 
Beside me like a sister — No, thank G od ! no sister ! — 
Has grown and grown, and with her mellow shade 
Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own hue, 
And even now is budding into blossom, 
Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still 
Eesorb its vital nectar, self-contained, 
And leave no living copies of its beauty 
To after ages. Ah i be less, sweet maid, 
Less than thyself! Yet no — my wife thou might'st be, 
If less than thus — but not the saint thou art. 
What ! shall my selfish longings drag thee down 
From maid to wife ? degrade the soul I worship ? 
That were a caitiff deed ! Oh, misery ! 
Is wedlock treason to that purity, 
Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock ? 
Elizabeth ! my saint ! [Exit Conrad. 

Wal. What, Sir ? the Princess ? 

Ye saints in heaven, I thank you ! 



scene n.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 55 

Lew. Oh, who else, 

Who else the minutest lineament fulfils 
Of this my cherished portrait ? 

Wal. So— 'tis well. 

Hear me, my Lord. — You think this dainty princess 
Too perfect for you, eh ? That's well again : 
For that whose price after fruition falls 
. May well too high be rated ere enjoyed — 
In plain words, — if she looks an angel now, you will 
be better mated than you expected, when you find 
her — a woman. For flesh and blood she is, and 
that young blood, — whom her childish misusage and 
your brotherly love ; her loneliness and your protec- 
tion ; her springing fancy and (for I may speak to 
you as a son) your beauty and knightly grace have 
so bewitched, and as some say, degraded, that 
briefly, she loves you, and briefly, better, her few 
friends fear, than you love her. 

Lew. Loves me ! My Count, that word is quickly 
spoken ; 
And yet, if it be true, it thrusts me forth 
Upon a shoreless sea of untried passion, 
From whence is no return. 

Wal. By Siegfreid's sword, 

My words are true, and I came here to say them, 
To thee, my son in all but blood. 
Mass, I'm no gossip. Why ? What ails the boy ? 



56 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Lew. Loves me ! Henceforth let no man, peering 
down 
Through the dim glittering mine of future years, 
Say to himself " Too much ! this cannot be !" 
To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon : 
Before the hourly miracle of life 
Blindfold we stand, and sigh, as though God were 

not. 
I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered, 
And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted, 
And priceless flowers, o'er which I trod unheeding, 
Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then ! 
She, who to me was as a nightingale 
That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered, 
To passing angels melancholy music — 
Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars, 
Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining 
Down from the cloudworld of her unknown fancy — 
She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight 
Seemed all too gross — who might have been a saint 
And companied with angels — thus to pluck 
The spotless rose of her own maidenhood 
To give it unto me ! 

Wal. You love her then ? 

Lew. Look ! If yon solid mountain were all gold, 
And each particular tree a band of jewels, 
And from its womb the Niebelungen hoard 



scene ii.] THE saint's tragedy. 57 

With elfin wardens called me, "Leave thy love 
And be our Master " — I would turn away — 
And know no wealth but her. 

Wal. Shall I say this to her ? 

I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed, 
But now, between her friends and persecutors 
My life's a burden. 

Lew, Persecutors ? Who ? 

Alas ! I guess it— I had known my mother 
Too light for that fair saint, — but who else dare 

wink 
When she is by ? My knights ? 

Wal. To a man, my Lord. 

Lew. Here's chivalry ! Well, that's soon brought 
to bar. 
The quarrel's mine ; my lance shall clear that stain. 

Wal. Quarrel with your knights ? Cut your own 
chair-legs off! 
They do but sail with the stream. Her passion, Sir, 
Broke shell and ran out twittering before yours did, 
And unrequited love is mortal sin 
With this chaste world. My boy, my boy, I tell 

you, 

The fault lies nearer home. 

Lew. I have played the coward — 

And in the sloth of false humility, 
Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve. 



58 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

How laggard I must seem to her, though, she love me; 
Playing with hawks and hounds, while she sits 

weeping ! 
'Tis not too late. 

Wal. Too late, my royal eyas ? 

You shall strike this deer yourself at gaze erelong — 
She has no mind to slip to cover. 

Lew. Come — 

We'll back — we'll back ; and you shall bear the mes- 
sage; 
I am ashamed to speak. Tell her I love her — 
That I should need to tell her ! Say, my coyness 
Was bred of worship, not of coldness. 

Wal. Then the serfs 

Must wait ? 

Lew. Why not ? This day to them, too, blessing 
brings, 
Which clears from envious webs their guardian 
angel's wings. {Exeunt. 

Scene III. 

A Chamber in the Castle. Sophia, Elizabeth, 
Agnes, Isentrude, &c, re-entering. 

Soph. What ! you will not ? You hear, dame 
Isentrude, 
She will not wear her coronet in the church, 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 59 

Because, forsooth, the crucifix within 
Is crowned with thorns. You hear her. 

JSliz. Noble mother, 

How could I flaunt this bauble in His face 
Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me — 
I felt it shamelessness to go so gay. 

Soph. Felt ? "What then ? Every foolish wench 

has feelings 
In these religious days, and thinks it carnal 
To wash her dishes, and obey her parents — 
No wonder they ape you, if you ape them — 
Go to ! I hate this humble-minded pride, 
Self-willed submission — to your own pert fancies ; 
This fog- bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits, 
Who make their oddities their test for grace, 
And peer about to catch the general eye ; 
Ah ! I have watched you throw your play-mates 

down 
To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon. 
Here's sanctity — to shame your cousin and me — 
Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency ; — 
If God has made you noble, use your rank, 
If you but know how. You Landgravine ? You 

mated 
With gentle Lewis ? Why, belike you'll cowl him, 
As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor 

spouse : 



60 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

No — one Hedwiga at a time's enough, — 
My son shall die no monk. 

Isen. Beseech you, Madam, — 

Weep not, my darling. 

Soph. Tut — I'll speak my mind. 

We'll have no saints. Thank heaven, my saintliness 
Ne'er troubled my good man, by day or night. 
We'll have no saints, I say ; far better for you, 
And no doubt pleasanter — You know your place — 
At least you know your place, — to take to cloisters, 
And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin, 
With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens, 
Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge. 
There's nothing noble in you, but your blood ; 
And that one almost doubts. Who art thou, child ? 

Isen. The daughter, please your highness, 
Of Andreas, king of Hungary, your better, 
And your son's spouse. 

Soph. I had forgotten, truly — 

And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant, 
And mine : come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies 
To say their prayers, and set the Saints the fashion. 
[Sophia and Agnes go out. 

Isen. Proud hussy ! Thou shalt set thy foot on 
her neck yet, darling, 
When thou art Landgravine. 

Eliz. And when will that be ? 



scene iil] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. 61 

No, she speaks truth ! I should have been a nun. 

These are the wages of my cowardice, — 

Too weak to face the world, too weak to leave it ! 

Guta. I'll take the veil with you. 

Eliz. 'Twere but a moment's work, — 

To slip into the convent there below, 
And be at peace for ever. And you, my nurse ? 

Isen. I will go with thee, child, where'er thou goest. 
But Lewis ? 

PJMz. Ah ! my brother ! No, I dare not — 
I dare not turn for ever from this hope, 
Though it be dwindled to a thread of mist. 
Oh ! that we two could flee and leave this Babel ! 
Oh ! if he were but some poor chapel-priest, 
In lonely mountain valleys far away ; 
And I his serving maid, to work his vestments, 
And dress his scrap of food, and see him stand 
Before the altar like a rainbowed saint, 
To take the blessed wafer from his hand, 
Confess my heart to him, and all night long 
Pray for him while he slept, or through, the lattice 
Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts 
Swell in his big deep eyes. — -Alas ! that dream 
Is wilder than the one that's fading even now ! 
Who's here ? [A Page enters. 

Page. The Count of Varila, madam, begs per- 
mission to speak with you. 



62 THE SAINTS TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Miz. With me ? What's this new terror ? 

Tell him I wait him. 

Isen. (Aside.) Ah ! my old heart sinks — 

God send us rescue ! Here the champion comes. 

Count Walter enters. 

Wal. Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious prin- 
cess — 
Plague, what comes next ? I had something ortho- 
dox ready ; 
'Tis dropped out by the way. — Mass ! here's the pith 

on't.— 
Madam, I come a wooing ; and for one 
Who is as only worthy of your love, 
As you of his ; he bids me claim the spousals 
Made long ago between you, — and yet leaves 
Your fancy free, to grant, or pass that claim ; 
And being that Mercury is not my planet, 
He hath advised himself to set herein, 
With pen and ink, what seemed good to him, 
As passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge 
Unworthy of his worship. [ Gives a letter and jewel. 

Isen. Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam ! 
[Elizabeth looks over the letter and casket, claps 

her hands, and bursts into childish laughter.~] 
Why here's my Christmas tree come after Lent — 
Espousals ? pledges ? by our childish love ? 
Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars, — 



scene iil] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 63 

And pretty presents come of them ! Look, Guta ! 
A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse, 
The blessed rood. He told me once — one night, 
When we did sit in the garden — What was I saying ? 

Wal. My fairest princess, as ambassador, 

What shall I answer ? 

JEliz. Tell him— tell him— God ! 

Have I grown mad, or a child within the moment ? 
The earth has lost her grey sad hue, and blazes 
With her old life-light ; hark ! yon wind's a song — 
Those clouds are angels' robes. — That fiery west 
Is paved with smiling faces. — I am a woman, 
And all things bid me love ! my dignity 
Is thus to cast my virgin pride away, 
And find my strength in weakness. — Busy brain ! 
Thou keep'st pace with my heart ; old lore, old fancies, 
Buried for years, leap from their tombs, and proffer 
Their magic service to my new-born spirit. 
I'll go — I am not mistress of myself — 
Send for him — bring him to me — he is mine ! 

[Exit. 

Isen. Ah! blessed Saints! how changed upon the 
moment ! 
She is grown taller, trust me, and her eye 
Flames like a fresh caught hind's. She that was 

christened 
A brown mouse for her stillness ! Good my Lord ! 
Now shall mine old bones see the grave in peace ! 



64 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Scene IV. 

The Bridal Feast. Elizabeth, Lewis, Sophia, 
and Company seated at the Dais table. Court 
Minstrel and Court Fool sitting on the Dais steps. 

Min. How gaily smile the heavens, 

The light winds whisper gay ; 

For royal birth and knightly worth 

Are knit to one to-day. 
Fool {Drowning his voice.) 

So we'll flatter them up, and we'll cocker 
them up, 

Till we turn young brains ; 

And pamper the brach till we make her a 
wolf, 

And get bit by the legs for our pains. 
Monies {Chanting without?) 

A fastu et superbia 

Domine libera nos. 
Min. 'Neath sandal red and samite, 

Are knights and ladies set ; 

The henchmen tall stride through the hall, 

The board with wine is wet. 
Fool. Oh ! merrily growls the starving hind, 

At my full skin ; 

And merrily howl wolf, wind, and owl, 

While I lie warm within. 



scene it.] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. 65 

Monks. A luxu et avaritia 

Domine libera nos. 
Min. Hark ! from the bridal bower, 

Rings out the bridesmaid's song ; 
" 'Tis the mystic hour of an untried power, 
The bride she tarries long." 
Fool. She's schooling herself and she's steeling 
herself, 
Against the dreary day, 
When she'll pine and sigh from her lattice high, 
For the knight that's far away. 
Monks. A carnis illectamentis 

Domine libera nos. 
Min. Blest maid ! fresh roses o'er thee 
The careless years shall fling ; 
While days and nights shall new delights 
To sense and fancy bring. 
Fool. Satins and silks, and feathers and lace, 
Will gild life's pill; 

In jewels and gold folks cannot grow old, 
Fine ladies will never fall ill. 
Monks. A vanitatibus sseculi 

Domine libera nos. 
[Sophia descends from the Dais, leading Elizabeth, 
Ladies follow .] 
Sophia, [to the Fool.~\ Silence, you screech-owl. 
Come strew flowers, fair ladies, 



66 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act i. 

And lead unto her bower our fairest bride, 

The cynosure of love and beauty here, 

Who shrines heaven's graces in earth's richest casket. 

Eliz. I come : [aside] Here, Guta, take those 
monks a fee — 
Tell them I thank them — bid them pray for me. 
I am half mazed with trembling joy within, 
And noisy wassail round — 'tis well, for else 
The spectre of my duties and my dangers 
Would whelm my heart with terror. Ah ! poor self ! 
Thou took'st this for the term and bourne of troubles — 
And now 'tis here, thou findest it the gate 
Of new sin-cursed infinities of labour, 
Where thou must do, or die ! 
\_Aloud.~] Lead on. I'll follow. \JExeunt. 

Fool. There, now. No fee for the fool ; and yet 
my prescription was as good as those old Jeremies'. 
But in law, physic, and divinity, folks had sooner 
be poisoned in Latin, than saved in the mother- 
toDgue. 






ACT II. 



Sceke I. A.D. 1221—7. 



Elizabeth's Bower. Night. Lewis sleeping in 
an Alcove. Elizabeth lying on the Floor in the 
Foreground. 

Eliz. No streak yet in the blank and eyeless east- 
More weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver 
On these bare boards, within a step of bliss. 
Why peevish ? 'Tis mine own will keeps me here — 
And yet I hate myself for that same will : 
Fightings within and out ! How easy 'twere, now, 
Just to be like the rest, and let life run — 
To use up to the rind what joys God sends us, 
Not thus forestall His rod : What ! and so lose 
The strength which comes by suffering' ? Well, if 

grief 
Be gain, mine's double — fleeing thus the snare 
Of yon luxurious and unnerving down, 
And widowed from mine Eden. And why widowed ? 

E 2 



1 u " I - ' 'v 'I 



68 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act ix, 

Because they tell me, love is of the flesh, 

And that's our house-bred foe, the adder in our 

bosoms, 
Which warmed to life, will sting us. They must 

know 

I do confess mine ignorance, Oh Lord ! 

Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove, 
jfc jfa jfa jti at. 

TV" TT W "3P Tp 

And yet I swore to love him. — So I do 
No more than I have sworn. Am I to blame 
If God makes wedlock that, which if it be not, 
It were a shame for modest lips to speak it, 
And silly doves are better mates than we ? 
And yet our love is Jesus' due, — and all things 
Which share with Him divided empery 
Are snares and idols — " To love, to cherish, and to 
obey!" 

•7S" "/v* If TP 

Oh ! deadly riddle ! Kent and twofold life ! 

Oh ! cruel troth ! To keep thee or to break thee 

Alike seems sin ! Oh ! thou beloved tempter, 

{Turning toward the led. 
Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself 
From God divert thy lesson ? Wjlt provoke Him ? 
What if mine heavenly Spouse in jealous ire 
Should smite mine earthly spouse ? Have I two 
husbands ? 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 69 

The words are horror — yet they are orthodox ! 

[Rises and goes to the window. 

•Sfc.J2.Jf.JA.JA. 

"7T "A" "TS" W TP 

How many many brows of happy lovers 
The fragrant lips of night even now are kissing ! 
Some wandering hand in hand through arched lanes ; 
Some listening for loved voices at the lattice ; 
Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss ; 
Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms, 
Whose touch makes sleep rich life. The very 

birds 
Within their nests are wooing ! So much love ! 
All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace ; 
The earth seems one vast bride-bed. Doth God 

tempt us ? 
Is't all a veil to blind our eyes from Him ? 
A fire-fly at the candle ! 'Tis love leads him : 
Love's light, and light is love : Oh, Eden ! Eden ! 
Eve was a virgin there, they say ; God knows. 
Must all this be as it had never been ? 
Is it all a fleeting t}^pe of higher love ? 
Why, if the lesson's pure, is not the teacher 
Pure also ? Is it my shame to feel no shame ? 
Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness ? 
Shall base emotions picture Christ's embrace ? 
Rest, rest, torn heart ! Yet where ? in earth or 

heaven ? 



7" " . * lul ■.^P^^^W^^^^^M^W^IiiPPBPB^i 



70 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Still, from out the bright abysses, gleams our Lady's 

silver footstool, 
Still the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the 

night- clouds fleet below. 
Oh! that I were walking, far above, upon that 

dappled pavement, 
Heaven's floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon 

where we lie. 
Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that 

platform, sliding silent, 
Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical ! 
They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the 

secret fountains 
Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their 

dreary prison clay. 
Love ! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou 

seek'st the lowest hollows ? 
Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with 

the highest blue. 
Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one exis- 
tence — 
Joining praises through the ages — Is it all aminstrel's 

dream ? 
Alas ! he wakes. [Lewis rises. 

Lewis. Ah ! faithless beauty, 

Is this your promise, that whene'er you prayed 
I should be still the partner of your vigils, 



scene l] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 71 

And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay 

dissembling 
"When she who woke you, took my feet for yours : 
Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce. 
Alas ! what's this ? These shoulders' cushioned ice, 
And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all, 
And weeping furrows traced ! Ah ! precious life- 
blood! 
Who has done this ? 

Eliz. Forgive ! 'twas I — my maidens — 

Lewis. 0, ruthless hags ! 

Eliz. Not so, not so — They wept 

When I did bid them, as I bid thee now 
To think of nought but love. 

Lewis. Elizabeth ! 

Speak! I will know the meaning of this mad- 
ness! 

Eliz. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls, 
In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh 
By such sharp lessons. I must tread their paths, 
If I would climb the mountains where they rest. 
Grief is the gate of bliss — why wedlock — knight- 
hood — 
A mother's joys — a hard-earned field of glory — 
By tribulation come — so doth God's kingdom. 

Lewis. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tor- 
tures 



72 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Are these the love of God ? Is He well pleased 
With this stern holocaust of health and joy ? 

Eliz. What ? Am I not as gay a lady-love 
As ever dipt in arms a noble knight ? 
Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day ? 
It pleases me to bear what you call pain, 
Therefore to me 'tis pleasure : joy and grief 
Are the will's creatures ; martyrs kiss the stake — 
The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze — 
The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count 
His pleasure by his wounds ; you must forget, 

love, 
Eve's curse lays suffering, as their natural lot, 
On woman-kind, till custom makes it light. 
I know the use of pain ; bar not the leech 
Because his cure is bitter — 'Tis such medicine 
Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak de- 
votion, 
For which you say you love me. — Ay, which brings 
Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy 
As its attendant angel — I'll say no more — 
Not even to thee — command, and I'll obey thee. 

Lewis. Thou casket of all graces ! fourfold wonder 
Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom ! Canst thou 
Beatify the ascetic's savagery 
To heavenly prudence ? Horror melts to pity, 
And pity kindles to adoring shower 



scene I.] THE saint's tragedy. 73 

Of radiant tears ! Thou tender cruelty ! 

Gay smiling martyrdom ! Shall I forbid thee ? 

Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness ? 

Thy courage by my weakness ? Where thou 

darest, 
I'll shudder and submit. I kneel here spell-bound 
Before my bleeding Saviour's living likeness 
To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such 

things, 
Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood 
Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore 
'Twas beautiful, 'twas Christ-like — had I thought 
That thou wert such : — 

Eliz. You would have loved me still ? 

Lewis. I had gone mad, I think, at every parting 
At mine own terrors for thee. No ; I'll learn to 

glory 
In that which makes thee glorious ! Noble stains ! 
I'll call them rose leaves out of paradise 
Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped 
From martyrs' diadems, prints of Jesus' cross 
Too truly borne, alas ! 

Llliz. I think, mine own, 

I am forgiven at last ? 

Lewis. To-night, my sister — 

Henceforth I'll clasp thee to my heart so fast 
Thou shalt not 'scape unnoticed. — 



74 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

Mix. [laughing.'] We shall see — 

Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss, 
And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss. 

Scene II. 

A Chamber in the Castle. Elizabeth — the Fool — 
Isentrtjdis — Guta singing. 

Par among the lonely hills, 
As I lay beside my sheep, 
Rest came down upon my soul, 
Prom the everlasting deep. 

Changeless march the stars above, 
Changeless morn succeeds to even ; 
And the everlasting hills, 
Changeless watch the changeless heaven. 

See the rivers, how they run, 
Changeless to a changeless sea ; 
All around is forethought sure, 
Fixed will and stern decree. 

Can the sailor move the main ? 
Will the potter heed the clay ? 
Mortal ! where the spirit drives, 
Thither must the wheels obey. 



JJ >wm . 



scene II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 75 

Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive : 
Where thy path is, thou shalt go. 
He who made the stream of time 
Wafts thee down to weal or woe. 

Eliz. That's a sweet song, and yet it does not 
chime 
With my heart's inner voice. Where had you it, 
Guta? 

Out a. From a nun who was a shepherdess in 
her youth — sadly plagued she was by a cruel step- 
mother, till she fled to a convent and found rest to 
her soul. 

Fool. No doubt ; nothing so pleasant as giving 
up one's own will in one's own way. But she might 
have learnt all that without taking cold on the 
hill-tops. 

Eliz. Where then, fool ? 

Fool. At any market-cross where two or three 
rogues are together, who have neither grace to mend, 
nor courage to say, " I did it." Now you shall see 
the shepherdess's baby dressed in my cap and bells. 

[Sings. 

When I was a greenhorn and young, 
And wanted to be and to do, 
I puzzled my brains about choosing my line, 
Till I found out the way that things go. 



76 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

The same piece of clay makes a tile, 

A pitcher, a taw, or a brick : 

Dan Horace knew life; you may cut out a 

saint, 
Or a bench from the self- same stick. 

The urchin who squalls in a gaol, 
By circumstance turns out a rogue ; 
While the castle-born brat is a senator born, 
Or a saint, if religion's in vogue. 

We fall on our legs in this world, 

Blind kittens, tossed in neck and heels : 

'Tis dame Circumstance lick's Nature's cubs into 

shape, 
She's the mill-head, if we are the wheels. 

Then why puzzle and fret, plot and dream ? 
He that's wise will just follow his nose; 
Contentedly fish, while he swims with the 

stream ; 
'Tis no business of his where it goes. 

Uliz. Far too well sung for such a saucy song. 
So go. 

Fool. Ay, I'll go. Whip the dog out of church, 
and then rate him for being no Christian. 

[Exit Fool. 



SCENE 



II.] THE saint's tragedy. 77 



'Eliz. Guta,*there is sense in that knave's ribaldry : 
We must not thus baptize our idleness, 
And call it resignation: Which is love? 
To do God's will, or merely suffer it ? 
I do not love that contemplative life : 
No! I must headlong into seas of toil, 
Leap forth from self, and spend my soul on others. 
Oh ! contemplation palls upon the spirit, 
Like the chill silence of an autumn sun : 
While action, like the roaring south-west wind, 
Sweeps laden with elixirs, with rich draughts 
Quickening the wombed earth. 

Guta. And yet what bliss, 

When, dying in the darkness of God's light, 
The soul can pierce these blinding webs of nature, 
And float up to The Nothing, which is all things — 
The ground of being, where self- forgetful silence 
Is emptiness, — emptiness fulness, — fulness God, — 
Till we touch Him, and like a snow-flake, melt 
Upon His light-sphere's keen circumference ! 
Miz. Hast thou felt this ? 

Guta. In part. 

Miz. Oh, happy Guta ! 

Mine eyes are dim — and what if I mistook 
For God's own self, the phantoms of my brain ? 
And who am I, that my own will's intent 
Should put me face to face with the living God ? 



78 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

I, thus thrust down from the still lakes of thought 

Upon a hoiling crater-field of labour. 

No ! He must come to me, not I to Him ; 

If I see God, beloved, I must see Him 

In mine own self: — 

Out a. Thyself? 

Miz. Why start, my sister ? 

God is revealed in the crucified : 
The crucified must be revealed in me : — 
I must put on His righteousness ; show forth 
His sorrow's glory ; hunger, weep with Him ; 
Writhe with His stripes, and let this aching flesh 
Sink through His fiery baptism into death, 
That I may rise with Him, and in His likeness 
May ceaseless heal the sick, and soothe the sad, 
And give away like Him this flesh and blood 
To feed His lambs — ay — we must die with Him 
To sense — and love — 

Guta. To love ? What, then, becomes 

Of marriage vows ? 

Eliz. I know it — so speak not of them. 

Oh ! that's the flow, the chasm in all my longings, 
Which I have spanned with cobweb arguments, 
Yet yawns before me still, where'er I turn, 
To bar me from perfection ; had I given 
My virgin all to Christ ! I was not worthy ! 
I could not stand alone ! 



scene .11.] THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. 79 

Guta. ' Here comes your husband. 

JEliz. He comes ! my sun ! and every thrilling 
vein 
Proclaims my weakness. [Lewis enters. 

Lewis. Good news, my princess ; in the street be- 
low 
Conrad, the man of God from Marpurg, stands, 
And from a bourne-stone to the simple folk 
Does thunder doctrine, preaching faith, repentance, 
And dread of all foul heresies ; his eyes 
On heaven still set, save when with searching 

frown 
He lours upon the crowd, who round him cower 
Like quails beneath the hawk, and gape, and tremble, 
Now raised to heaven, now down again to hell. 
I stood beside and heard ; like any doe's 
My heart did rise and fall. 

JEliz. Oh, let us hear him ! 

We too need warning ; shame, if we let pass 
Unentertained, God's angels on their way. 
Send for him, brother. 

Lewis. Let a knight go down 

And say to the holy man, the Landgrave Lewis 
With humble greetings prays his blessedness 
To make these secular walls the spirit's temple 
At least to-night. 

Miz. Now go, my ladies, both — 



80 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act ii. 

Prepare fit lodgings, — let your courtesies 
Retain in our poor courts the man of God. 

[Exeunt. Lewis and Elizabeth are left alone. 
Now hear me, best-beloved: I have marked this 

man : 
And that which hath scared others, draws me to- 
wards him : 
He has the graces which I want ; his sternness 
I envy for its strength ; his fiery boldness 
I call the earnestness which dares not trifle 
With life's huge stake ; his coldness but the calm 
Of one who long hath found, and keeps unwavering, 
Clear purpose still ; he hath the gift which speaks 
The deepest things most simply ; in his eye 
I dare be happy — weak I dare not be. 
With such a guide, — to save this little heart — 
The burden of self-rule — Oh — half my work 
Were eased, and I could live for thee and thine, 
And take no thought of self. Oh, be not jealotis, 
Mine own, mine idol ! For thy sake I ask it — 
I would but be a mate and help more meet 
For all thy knightly virtues. 

Lewis. 'Tis too true ! 

I have felt it long ; we stand, two weakling children, 
Under too huge a burden, while temptations 
Like adders swarm up round : I must be led — 
But thou alone shalt lead me. 



sce]*e il] the saint's tragedy. 81 

Miz. I? beloved! 

This load more ? Strengthen, Lord, the feeble 
knees ! 

Lewis. Yes ! thou, my queen, who making thyself 
once mine, 
Hast made me sevenfold thine ; I own thee guide 
Of my devotions, mine ambition's loadstar, 
The Saint whose shrine I serve with lance and lute; 
If thou wilt have a ruler, let him be 
Through thee, the ruler of thy slave. \_Kneels to her. 

Eliz. Oh, kneel not — 

But grant my prayer — If we shall find this man, 
As well I know him, worthy, let him be 
Director of my conscience and my actions 
With all but thee — -Within love's inner shrine 
We shall be still alone — But joy ! here comes 
Our embassy, successful. 

Enter Conrad, with Count Walter, Monies, * 
Ladies, Sfc. 

Conrad. Peace to this house. 

Eliz. Hail to your holiness 

Lewis. The odour of your sanctity and might 
With balmy steam, and gales of Paradise 
Forestalls you hither. 

Eliz. Bless us doubly, master, 

With holy doctrine, and with holy prayers. 



82 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Con. Children, I am the servant of Christ's ser- 
vants — 
And needs must yield to those who may com- 
mand 
By right of creed ; I do accept your bounty — 
Not for myself, but for that priceless name, 
Whose dread authority and due commission, 
Attested by the seal of His vicegerent, 
I bear unworthy here ; through my vile lips 
Christ and His vicar thank you ; on myself — 
And these, my brethren, Christ's adopted poor — 
A menial's crust, and some waste nook, or dog- 
hutch, 
Wherein the worthless flesh may nightly hide, 
Are best bestowed. 

Eliz. You shall be where you will — 

Do what you will ; unquestioned, unobserved, 
Enjoy, refrain ; silence and solitude, 
The better part which such like spirits choose, 
We will provide ; only be you our master, 
And we your servants, for a few short days : 
Oh, blessed days ! 

Con. Ah, be not hasty, madam ! 

Think whom you welcome ; one who has no skill 
To wink and speak smooth things ; whom fear of 

God 
Constrains to daily wrath ; who brings, alas ! 



scene ii.] THE saint's tragedy, 83 

A sword, not peace ; within whose bones the word 
Burns like a pent-up fire, and makes him bold 
If aught in you or yours shall seem amiss, 
To cry aloud and spare not ; let me go — 
To pray for you — as I have done long time, 
Is sweeter than to chide you. 

Eliz. Then your prayers 

Shall drive home your rebukes ; for both we need 

you— 
Our snares are many, and our sins are more. 
So say not nay — I'll speak with you apart. 

[Elizabeth and Conrad retire. 

Lewis. [aside.~\ Well, Walter mine, how like you 
the good legate ? 

Wal. Walter has seen nought of him but his eye ; 
And that don't please him. 

Lewis. How so, sir ! that face 

Is pure and meek — a calm and thoughtful eye. 

Wal. A shallow, stony, steadfast eye ; that looks 
at neither man nor beast in the face, but at some- 
thing invisible a yard before him, through you and 
past you, at a fascination, a ghost of fixed purposes 
that haunts him, from which neither reason nor pity 
will turn him. I have seen such an eye in men pos- 
sessed — with devils, or with self: sleek passionless 
men, who are too refined to be manly, and measure 
their grace by their effeminacy; crooked vermin, 

p2 



84 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

who swarm up in pious times, being drowned out of 
their earthy haunts by the spring-tide of religion ; 
and so making a gain of godliness, swim upon the 
first of the flood, till it cast them ashore on the 
firm beach of wealth and station. I always mistrust 
those wall-eyed saints. 

Lewis. Beware, sir Count, your keen and worldly 
wit 
Is good for worldly uses, not to tilt 
Withal at holy men and holy things. 
He pleases well the spiritual sense 
Of my most peerless lady, whose discernment 
Is still the touchstone of my grosser fancy : 
He is her friend, and mine ; and you must love 

him 
Even for our sakes alone. 

[To a 'bystander.'] A word with you, sir. 

[In the mean time Elizabeth and Conbad are 
talking together.'] 

Eliz. I would be taught — 

Con. It seems you claim some knowledge, 

By choosing thus your teacher. 

JEliz. I would know more — 

Con. Go then to the schools — and be no wiser, 
madam ; 
And let God's charge here run to waste, to seek 



scene il] THE saint's tragedy. 85 

The bitter fruit of knowledge — hunt the rainbow 
O'er hill and dale, while wisdom rusts at home. 

JEliz. I would be holy, master — 

Con. Be so, then. 

God's will stands fair : 'tis thine which fails, if any. 

MHz. I would know how to rule — 

Con. Then must thou learn 

The needs of subjects, and be ruled thyself. 
Sink, if thou longest to rise ; become most small — 
The strength which comes by weakness makes thee 
great. 

Miz. I will. 

Lewis. What, still at lessons ? Come, my fairest 
• sister, 
Usher the holy man unto his lodgings. [Exeunt. 

Wat. [alone.'] So, so, the birds are limed : — Hea- 
ven grant that we do not soon see them stowed in 
separate cages. Well, here my prophesying ends. 
I shall go to my lands, and see how much the gentle- 
men, my neighbours, have stolen off them the last 
week, — Priests ? Frogs in the king's bedchamber ! 
What says the song ? 

I once had a hound, a right good hound, 
A hound both fleet and strong : 
He eat at my board, and he slept by my bed, 
And ran with me all the day long. 



86 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

But my wife took a priest, a shaveling priest, 
And " such friendships are carnal," quoth he. 
So my wife and her priest they drugged the poor 

beast, 
And the rat's-bane is waiting for me. 

Scene III. 

The Gateway of a Convent, Night, 

Enter Conkad. 
Con. This night she swears obedience to me! 

Wondrous Lord ! 
How hast Thou opened a path, where my young 

dreams 
May find fulfilment : there are prophecies 
Upon her, make me bold. Why comes she not ? 
She should be here by now. Strange, how I shrink — 
I, who ne'er yet felt fear of man or fiend. 
Obedience to my will ! An awful charge ! 
But yet, to have the training of her sainthood ; 
To watch her rise above this wild world's waves 
Like floating water-lily, towards heaven's light 
Opening its virgin snows, with golden eye 
Mirroring the golden sun ; to be her champion, 
And war with fiends for her ; that were a " quest" — 
That were true chivalry ; to bring my Judge 
This jewel for His crown ; this noble soul, 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 87 

"Worth thousand prudish clods of barren clay, 
"Who mope for heaven because earth's grapes are 

sour — 
Her, full of youth, flushed with the heart's rich 

first-fruits, 
Tangled in earthly pomp — and earthly love. 
Wife ? Saint by her face she should be : with such 

looks 
The queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing came 
Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic 
Sank fainting, drunk with beauty : — she is most 

fair! 
Pooh ! I know nought of fairness — this I know, 
She calls herself my slave, with such an air 
As speaks her queen, not slave ; that shall be looked 

to— 
She must be pinioned, or she will range abroad 
Upon too bold a wing ; 't will cost her pain — 
But what of that ? there are worse things than 

pain — 
What ! not yet here ? I'll in, and there await her 
In prayer before the altar ; I have need on 't : 
And shall have more before this harvest's ripe. 
As Conead goes out, Elizabeth, Isentbtjdis, 

and Gtuta enter. 
JEliz. I saw him just before us : let us onward ; 
We must not seem to loiter. 



88 THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. [act ii. 

Isen. Then you promise 

Exact obedience to his sole direction 
Henceforth in every scruple ? 

Eliz. In all I can, 

And be a wife. 

Guta. Is it not a double bondage ? 

A husband's will is clog enough. Be sure, 
Though free, I crave more freedom. 

Eliz. So do I — 

This servitude shall free me — from myself. 
Therefore I'll swear. 

Isen. To what ? 

Eliz. I know not wholly : 

But this I know, that I shall swear to-night 
To yield my will unto a wiser will ; 
To see God's truth through eyes, which, like the 

eagle's, 
From higher Alps undazzled eye the sun. 
Compelled to discipline from which my sloth 
Would shrink, unbidden, — to deep devious paths 
Which my dull sight would miss, I now can plunge, 
And dare life's eddies fearless. 

Isen. You will repent it. 

Eliz. I do repent, even now. Therefore I'll 
swear — 
And bind myself to that, which once being right, 
Will not be less right, when I shrink from it. 



scene it.] THE SAINT'S TEAGED7. 89 

No ; if the end be gained — if I be raised 

To freer, nobler use, I'll dare, I'll welcome 

Him and his means, though they were racks and 

flames. 
Come, ladies, let us in, and to the chapel. \_JExeunt. 

Scene IV. 
A Ghamier. Gut a, Isentrudis, and a Lady. 

Lady. Doubtless she is most holy — but for wis- 
dom — 
Say if 'tis wise to spurn all rules, all censures, 
And mountebank it in the public ways 
Till she becomes a jest ? 

Isen. How's this ? 

Lady. For one thing — 

Yestreen I passed her in the open street, 
Following the vocal line of chanting priests, 
Clad in rough serge, and with her bare soft palms 
Wooing the ruthless flints ; the gaping crowd 
Unknowing whom they held, did thrust and jostle 
Her tender limbs ; she saw me as she passed — 
And blushed and veiled her face, and smiled withal. 

Isen. Oh, think, she's not seventeen yet. 

Guta. Why expect 

Wisdom with love in all ? Each has his gift — 
Our souls are organ pipes of diverse stop 
And various pitch ; each with its proper notes 



90 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Thrilling beneath the self-same breath of God. 
Though poor alone, yet joined, they're harmony. 
Besides, these higher spirits must not bend 
To common methods ; in their inner world 
They move by broader laws, at whose expression 
We must adore, not cavil : here she comes — 
The ministering Saint, fresh from the poor of Christ. 

Elizabeth enters without cloak or shoes, carrying 
an empty basket. 

Isen. What's here, my princess ? Guta, fetch her 
robes ! 
Rest, rest, my child ! 

Eliz. [Throwing herself on a seat.'] Oh ! I have 
seen such things ! 
I shudder still ; your bright looks dazzle me ; 
As those who long in hideous darkness pent 
Blink at the daily light ; this room's too gay ! 
We sit in a cloud, and sing, like pictured angels, 
And say, the world runs smooth — while right below 
Welters the black, fermenting heap of life 
On which our state is built : I saw this day 
What we might be, and still be Christian women : 
And mothers too — I saw one, laid in child-bed 
These three cold weeks upon the black damp straw ; 
No nurses, cordials, or that nice parade 
With which we try to balk the curse of Eve — 



scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 91 

And yet she laughed, and showed her buxom boy, 
And said, Another week, so please the Saints, 
She'd be at work a-field. Look here — and here — 

[Pointing round the room. 
I saw no such things there ; and yet they lived. 
Our wanton accidents take root, and grow 
To vaunt themselves God's laws, until our clothes, 
Our gems, and gaudy books, and cushioned litters 
Become ourselves, and we would fain forget 
There live who need them not. 

[Gtjta offers to robe her. 
Let be, beloved — 
I will taste somewhat this same poverty — 
Try these temptations, grudges, gnawing shames, 
For which 'tis blamed ; how probe an unfelt evil ? 
Would'st be the poor man's friend ? Must freeze 

with him — 
Test sleepless hunger — let thy crippled back 
Ache o'er the endless furrow ; how was He, 
The blessed One, made perfect ? Why, by grief — 
The fellowship of voluntary grief — 
He read the tear-stained book of poor men's souls, 
As I must learn to read it. Lady ! lady ! 
Wear but one robe the less — forego one meal — 
And thou shalt taste the core of many tales 
Which now flit past thee, like a minstrel's songs, 
The sweeter for their sadness. — 



92 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Lady. Heavenly wisdom ! 

Forgive me ! 

LJliz. How ? What wrong is mine, fair dame ? 

Lady. I thought you, to my shame — less wise 
than holy. 
But you have conquered : I will test these sorrows 
On mine own person ; I have toyed too long 
In painted pinnace down the stream of life, 
"Witched with the landscape, while the weary rowers 
Paint at the groaning oar : I'll be thy pupil. 
Farewell. Heaven bless thy labours and thy lesson. 

[JEW*. 

Isen. We are alone. Now tell me, dearest lady, 
How came you in this plight ? 

LJliz. Oh ! chide not, nurse — 

My heart is full — and yet I went not far — 
Even here, close by, where my own bower looks 

down 
Upon that unknown sea of wavy roofs, 
I turned into an alley 'neath the wall — 
And stepped from earth to hell. — The light of 

heaven, 
The common air, was narrow, gross, and dun ; 
The tiles did drop from the eaves; the unhinged 

doors 
Tottered o'er inky pools, where reeked and curdled 
The offal of a life ; the gaunt-haunched swine 



scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 93 

Growled at their christened playmates o'er the 

scraps. 
Shrill mothers cursed ; wan children wailed ; sharp 

coughs 
Rang through the crazy chambers ; hungry eyes 
Glared dumb reproach, and old perplexity, 
Too stale for words ; o'er still and webless looms 
The listless craftsmen through their elf-locks 

scowled ; 
These were my people ! all I had, I gave — 
They snatched it thankless ; (was it not their own ? 
Wrung from their veins, returning all too late ?) 
Or in the new delight of rare possession, 
Forgot the giver ; one did sit apart, 
And shivered on a stone ; beneath her rags 
Nestled two impish, fleshless, leering boys, 
Grown old before their youth; they cried for 

bread — 
She chid them down, and hid her face and wept ; 
I had given all — I took my cloak, my shoes, 
(What could I else ? 'Twas but a moment's want 
Which she had borne, and borne day after day,) 
And clothed her bare gaunt arms and purpled feet, 
Then slunk ashamed away to wealth and honour. 

Conrad enters. 
What ? Conrad ? unannounced ! This is too bold ! 



94 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, [act ii. 

Peace ! I have lent myself — and I must take 
The usury of that loan : your pleasure, master ? 

Con, Madam, but yesterday, I bade your pre- 
sence, 
To hear the preached word of God ; I preached — 
And yet you came not — Where is now your oath ? 
Where is the right to bid, you gave to me ? 
Am I your ghostly guide ? I asked it not. 
Of your own will you tendered that, which, given, 
Became not choice, but duty. — What is here ? 
Think not that alms, or lowly-seeming garments, 
Self-willed humilities, pride's decent mummers, 
Can raise above obedience ; she from God 
Her sanction draws, while these we forge ourselves, 
Mere tools to clear her necessary path. 
Go free — thou art no slave : God doth not own 
Unwilling service, and His ministers 
Must lure, not drag in leash ; henceforth I leave 

thee: 
Eiot in thy self-willed fancies ; pick thy steps 
By thine own will-o'-the-wisp toward the pit ; 
Farewell, proud girl. [Uxit Conrad. 

Miz. Oh God ! What have I done ? 

I have cast off the clue of this world's maze, 
And like an idiot, let my boat adrift 
Above the water-fall ! — I had no message — 
How's this ? 



sCEffE Y.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 95 

Isen. We passed it by, as matter of no moment 
Upon the sudden coming of your guests. 

JEliz. No moment! 'Tis enough to have driven 
him forth — 
And that's enough to damn me : I'll not chide you — 
I can see nothing but my loss ; I'll to him — 
I'll go in sackcloth, bathe his feet with tears — 
And know nor sleep nor food till I am forgiven — 
And you must with me, ladies. Come and find him. 

[JEoceunt, 

Scene V. 

A Sail in the Castle, In the background a Group 
of diseased and deformed Beggars ; Conrad enter- 
ing, Elizabeth comes forward to meet him. 

Con. What dost thou, daughter ? 

JEliz. Ah, my honoured master ! 

That name speaks pardon, sure. 

Con. What dost thou, daughter ? 

JEliz. I have been washing these poor people's 
feet. 

Con. A wise humiliation. 

JEiliz. So I meant it — 

And use it as a penance for my pride ; 
And yet, alas, through my own vulgar likings 
Or stubborn self-conceit, 'tis none to me. 



1 



96 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

I marvel how the Saints thus tamed their spirits : 
Sure to be humbled by such toil, but proves, 
Not cures, our lofty mind. 

Con. Thou speakest well — 

The knave who serves unto another's needs 
Knows himself abler than the man who needs him ; 
And she who stoops, will not forget, that stooping 
Implies a height to stoop from. 

JEliz. Could I see 

My Saviour in His poor ! 

Con. Thou shalt hereafter : 

But now to wash Christ's feet were dangerous 

honour 
For weakling grace ; would you be humble, daughter, 
You must look up, not down, and see yourself 
A paltry atom, sap-transmitting vein 
Of Christ's vast vine ; the pettiest joint and member 
Of His great body ; own no strength, no will, 
Save that which from the ruling head's command 
Through me, as nerve, derives ; let thyself die — 
And dying, rise again to fuller life. 
To be a whole is to be small and weak — 
To be a part is to be great and mighty 
In the one spirit of the mighty whole — 
The spirit of the martyrs and the saints — 
The spirit of the queen, on whose towered neck 
We hang, blest ringlets ! 



I 



scene v.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 97 

Eliz. Why ! thine eyes flash fire ! 

Con. But hush ! such words are not for courts and 
halls- 
Alone with God and me, thou shalt hear more. 

[Exit Conrad. 

Eliz. As when rich chanting ceases suddenly — 
And the rapt sense collapses ! — Oh, that Lewis 
.Could feed my soul thus ! But to work — to work — 
What wilt thou, little maid ? Ah, I forgot thee — 
Thy mother lies in childbed — Say, in time 
I'll bring the baby to the font myself. 
It knits them unto me, and me to them, 
That bond of sponsorship — How now, good dame — 
Whence then so sad ? 

Woman. An 't please your nobleness, 

My neighbour Grretl is with her husband laid 
In burning fever. 

Eliz. I will come to them. 

Woman. Alack, the place is foul for such as you; 
And fear of plague has cleared the lane of lodgers ; 
If you could send — 

Eliz. What ? where I am afraid 

To go myself, send others ? That's strange doctrine. 
I'll be with you anon. [Goes up into the Hall. 

Isentetjdis enters with a basket. 

Isen. Why, here's a weight — These cordials now, 
and simples, 



98 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Want a stout page to bear them ; yet her fancy- 
Is still to go alone, to help herself. — 
Where will 't all end ? In madness, or the grave ? 
No limbs can stand these drudgeries : no spirit 
The fretting harrow which this ruffian priest 
Calls education— 
Ah ! here comes our Count. 

[Count Walter enters as from a journey."] 

Too late, sir, and too seldom — Where have you been 
These four months past, while we are sold for bond- 
slaves 
Unto a peevish friar ? 

Wal. Why, my fair rose-bud — 

A trifle over-blown, but not less sweet — 
I have been pining for you, till my hair 
Is as grey as any badger's. 

Isen. I'll not jest. 

Wal. What ? has my wall-eyed Saint shown you 
his temper ? 

Isen. The first of his peevish fancies was, that she 
should eat nothing which was not honestly and 
peaceably come by. 

Wal. Why, I heard that you too had joined that 
sect. 

Isen. And more fool I. But ladies are bound to 
set an example — while they are not bound to ask 



scene v.] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. 99 

where everything comes from : with her, poor child, 
scruples and starvation were her daily diet; meal after 
meal she rose from table empty, unless the Land- 
grave nodded and winked her to some lawful eatable; 
till she that used to take her food like an angel, 
without knowing it, was thinking from morning to 
night whether she might eat this, that, or the 
other. 

Wal. Poor Eves ! if the world leaves you inno- 
cent, the Church will not. Between the devil and 
the director, you are sure to get your share of the 
apples of knowledge ! 

Isen. True enough. She complained to Conrad 
of her scruples, and he told her, that by the law 
was the knowledge of sin. 

Wal. But what said Lewis ? 

Isen. As much bewitched as she, sir. He has 
told her, and more than her, that were it not for the 
laughter and ill-will of his barons, he would join her 
in the same abstinence. But all this is child's play, 
to the friar's last outbreak. 

Wal. Ah ! The sermon which you all forgot, 
when the Marchioness of Misnia came suddenly ? 
I heard that war had been proclaimed on that 
score ; but what terms of peace were concluded ? 

Isen. Terms of peace ? Do you call it peace to 
be delivered over to his nuns' tender mercies, myself 

g2 



100 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

and Guta, as well as our lady, — as if we had been 
bond-slaves and blackamoors ? 

Wal. You need not have submitted. 

Isen. What? could I bear to see my poor child 
wandering up and down, wringing her hands like a 
mad woman — I who have lived for no one else this 
sixteen years ? Guta talked sentiment — called it 
a glorious cross, and so forth. — I took it as it 
came. 

Wal. And got no quarter, I'll warrant. 

Isen. Don't talk of it — my poor back tingles at 
the thought ! 

Wal. The sweet saints think every woman of the 
world no better than she should be ; and without 
meaning to be envious, owe you all a grudge for 
past flirtations. As I am a knight, now it's over, I 
like you all the better for it. 

Isen. What ? 

Wal. When I see a woman who will stand by her 
word, and two who will stand by their mistress. And 
the monk, too — there's mettle in him. I took him 
for a canting carpet-haunter ; but be sure, the man 
who will bully his own patrons, has an honest pur- 
pose in him, though it bears strange fruit on this 
wicked hither-side of the grave. Now, my fair 
nymph of the birchen-tree, use your interest to find 
jne supper and lodging ; for your elegant squires of 



scene vi.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. ] 01 

the trencher look surly on me here : I am the prophet 
who has no honour in his own country. 

\Pixeunt. 



Scene VI. 

Dawn, A rocky path leading to a mountain Chapel. 
A Peasant sitting on a stone with dog and cross- 
bow. 

Peasant singing. 

Over the wild moor, in reddest dawn of morning, 
Gaily the huntsman down green droves must 

roam: 
Over the wild moor, in greyest wane of evening, 
Weary the huntsman comes wandering home ; 

Home, home, 
If he has one. Who comes here ? 

[A Woodcutter enters with a laden ass.'] 

What art going about ? 

Woodcutter. To warm other folks' backs. 

Peas. Thou art in the common lot — Jack earns 
and Gill spends — therein lies the true division of 
labour. What's thy name ? 

Woodc. Be'est a keeper, man, or a charmer, that 
dost so catechize me ? 

Peas. Both — I am a keeper, for I keep all I 



102 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

catch ; and a charmer, for I drive bad spirits out of 
honest men's turnips. 

Wbodc. Mary sain us, what be they like ? 

Peas. Four-legged kitchens of leather, cooking 
farmers' crops into butcher's meat by night, with- 
out leave or licence. 

Woodc. By token, thou'rt a deer stealer ? 

Peas. Stealer, quoth he ? I have dominion. I 
do what I like with mine own. 

Wbodc. Thine own ? 

Peas. Yea, marry — for saith the priest, man has 
dominion over the beast of the field and the fowl 
of the air: so I, being as I am a man, as men 
go, have dominion over the deer in my trade, as 
you have in yours over sleep-mice and wood- 
peckers. 

Wbodc. Then every man has a right to be a 
poacher. 

Peas. Every man has his gift, and the tools go to 
him that can use them. Some are born workmen ; 
some have souls above work. I'm one of that metal. 
I was meant to own land, and do nothing ; but the 
angel that deals out babies' souls, mistook the cradles, 
and spoilt a gallant gentleman ! Well — I forgive 
him ! there were many born the same night — and 
work wears the wits. 

Woodc. I had sooner draw in a yoke than hunt 



scene yi.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 103 

in a halter. Had'st best repent and mend thy 
ways. 

Peas. The way-warden may do that : I wear ont 
no ways, I go across country. Mend ? saith he ? 
Why I can but starve at worst, or groan with the 
rheumatism, which you do already. And who would 
reek and wallow o' nights in the same straw, like 
a stalled cow, when he may have his choice of all 
the clean holly bushes in the forest ? Who would 
grub out his life in the same croft, when he has 
free- warren of all fields between this and Rhine? 
Not I. I have dirtied my share of spades myself; 
but I slipped my leash and went self- hunting. 

Woodc. But what if thou be caught and brought 
up before the prince ? 

Peas. He don't care for game. He has put down 
his kennel, and keeps a tame saint instead: and 
when I am driven in, I shall ask my pardon of her 
in St. John's name. They say that for his sake 
she'll give away the shoes off her feet. 

Woodc. I would not stand in your shoes for all 
the top and lop in the forest. Murder ! Here comes 
a ghost ! Eun up the bank-^shove the jackass into 
the ditch. 

[A white figure comes up the path with lights. ~\ 
Peas. A ghost or a watchman, and one's as bad 



104 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

as the other — so we may take to cover for the 

time. 

[Elizabeth enters meanly clad, carrying Tier new- 
born infant ; Isentkudis following with a taper 
and gold pieces on a salver, Elizabeth passes, 
singing."] 

Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping, 
Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above ; 
Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently 

creeping 
Up to their Lord in the might of their love. 

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I 

bring Thee, 
Odour, and light, and the magic of gold ; 
Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must 

sing Thee, 
Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they grow 

old. 

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I 

tender, 
Life of mine own life, the fruit of my love ; 
Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render 
Count of the precious charge, kneeling above. 

[They pass up the path. The peasants come out.~\ 



scene vi.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 105 

Peas. No ghost, but a mighty pretty wench, with 
a mighty sweet voice. 

Wbodc. Wench, indeed? Where be thy man- 
ners ? "lis her Ladyship — the Princess. 

Peas. The Princess ! Ay, I thought those little 
white feet were but lately out of broadcloth — still, I 
say, a mighty sweet voice — I wish she had not sung 
so sweetly — it makes things to arise in a body's 
head, does that singing : a wonderful handsome lady ! 
a royal lady ! 

Woodc. But a most unwise one. Did ye mind 
the gold ? If I had such a trencher full, it should 
sleep warm in a stocking, instead of being made a 
brother to owls here, for every rogue to snatch at. 

Peas. Why, then ? who dare harm such as her, 
man ? 

Wbodc. Nay, nay, none of us, we are poor folks, 
we fear God and the king. But if she had met a 
gentleman now— heaven help her ! Ah ! thou hast 
lost a chance — thou might' st have run out promis- 
cuously, and down on thy knees, and begged thy 
pardon for the new comer's sake. There was a 
chance, indeed. 

Peas. Pooh, man, I have done nothing but lose 
chances all my days. I fell into the fire the day I 
was christened, and ever since I am like a fresh- 
trimmed fir-tree ; every foul feather sticks to me. 



106 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act ii< 

Woodc. Go, shrive thyself, and the priest will 
scrub off thy turpentine with a new hair-cloth ; and 
now, good day, the maids are a-waiting for their 
fire-wood. 

Peas. A word before you go — Take warning by 
me — Avoid that same serpent, wisdom — Pray to the 
Saints to make you a blockhead — Never send your 
boys to school — For Heaven knows, a poor man that 
will live honest, and die in his bed, ought to have no 
more scholarship than a parson, and no more brains 
than your jackass. 

Scene VII. 

The Gateway of a Castle. Elizabeth and Tier 
suite standing at the top of a flight of steps. Mob 
below. 

Peas. Bread ! Bread ! Bread ! give us bread ; we 
perish. 

1st Voice. Ay, give, give, give ! God knows, we're 
long past earning. 

2nd Voice, Our skeleton children lie along in the 
roads — 

3rd Voice. Our sheep drop dead about the frozen 
leas — 

4ith Voice. Our harness and our shoes are boiled for 
food— 



scene vii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, 107 

Old Man's Voice. Starved, withered, autumn hay 
that thanks the scythe ! 
Send out your swordsmen, mow the dry bents 

down, 
And make this long death short — we'll never 
struggle. 
All. Bread, bread! 

JEliz. Ay, bread — Where is it, knights and ser- 
vants ? 
Why butler, seneschal, this food forthcomes not ? 
Butler. Alas, we've eaten all ourselves: heaven 
knows 
The pages broke the buttery hatches down — 
The boys were starved almost. 

Voice below. Aj r , she can find enough to feast her 

minions. 
Woman's Voice. How can she know what 'tis, for 
months and months 
To stoop and straddle in the clogging fallows, 
Bearing about a living babe within you ? 
And then at night to fat yourself and it 
On fir-bark, madam, and water. 

JEliz. My good dame — - 

That which you bear, I bear : for food, God 

knows, 
I have not tasted food this live-long day — 
Nor will, till you are served. I sent for wheat 



108 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

From Koln and from the Rhine-land, days ago, 
Oh God ! why comes it not ? 

JEnter from below Count Walter, with a 
Merchant. 

Wal. Stand back ; you'll choke me, rascals : 
Archers, bring up those mules. Here comes the 

corn — 
Here comes your guardian angel, plenty-laden, 
With no white wings, but good white wheat, my 

boys, 
Quarters on quarters — if you'll pay for it. 

Miz. Oh ! give him all he asks. 

Wal. The scoundrel wants 

Three times its value. 

Merchant. Not a penny less — 

I bought it on speculation — I must live — 
I get my bread by buying corn that's cheap, 
And selling where 'tis dearest. Mass, you need it, 
And you must pay according to your need. 

Mob. Hang him! hang all regraters — hang the 
forestalling dog ! 

Wal. Driver, lend here the halter off that mule. 

Eliz. Nay, Count ; the corn is his, and his the 
right 
To fix conditions for his own. 

Mer. Well spoken ! 



scene til] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 109 

A wise and royal lady ! She will see 

The trade protected. Why, I kept the corn 

Three months on venture. Now, so help me Saints, 

I am a loser by it, quite a loser — 

So help me Saints, I am. 

Miz. You will not sell it 

Save at a price, which, by the bill you tender, 
Is far beyond our means. Heaven knows, I grudge 

not — 
I have sold my plate, have pawned my robes and 

jewels, 
Mortgaged broad lands and castles to buy food — 
And dow I have no more. — Abate, or trust 
Our honour for the difference. 

Mer. Not a penny — 

I trust no nobles. I must make my profit — 
I'll have my price, or take it back again. 

Miz. Most miserable, cold, short-sighted man, 
Who for thy selfish gains dost welcome make 
God's wrath, and battenest on thy fellows' woes, 
What ! wilt thou turn from heaven's gate, open to 

thee, 
Through which thy charity may passport be, 
And win thy long greed's pardon ? Oh, for once 
Dare to be great ; show mercy to thyself ! 
See how that boiling sea of human heads 
Waits open-mouthed to bless thee : speak the word, 



110 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act n. 

And their triumphant quire of jubilation 

Shall pierce God's cloudy floor with praise and 

prayers, 
And drown the accuser's count in angels' ears. 

[In the mean time Walter, Sfc., have been throwing 
down the ivheat to the Mob.'] 

Mob. God bless the good Count ! — Bless the holy 
princess — 
Hurrah for wheat — Hurrah for one full stomach. 

Mer. Ah ! that's my wheat ! treason, my wheat, 
my money ! 

Uliz. Where is the wretch's wheat ? 

Wal. Below, my lady ; 

We counted on the charm of your sweet words, 
And so did for him, what, your sermon ended, 
He would have done himself. 

Knight. 'Twere rude to doubt it. 

Mer, Ye rascal barons ! 
What ! Are we burghers monkeys for your pastime ? 
We'll clear the odds. [Seizes Walter. 

Wal. Soft, friend — a worm will turn. 

Voices below. Throw him down ! 

Wal. Dost hear that, friend ? 

Those pups are keen-toothed ; they have eat of late 
Worse bacon to their bread than thee. Come, come, 
Put up thy knife ; we'll give thee market-price — 



scene vii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. Ill 

And if thou must have more — why take it out 
In board and lodging in the castle dungeon. 

[Walter leads Mm out ; the Mob, <Sfc, disperse. 
Eliz. Now then — there's many a one lies faint at 
home — 
I'll go to them myself. 

Isen. What now ? start forth 

■ In this most bitter frost, so thinly clad ? 

Uliz. Tut, tut, I wear my working dress to-day, 
And those who work, robe lightly — 

Isen. Nay, my child, 

For once keep up your rank. 

JEUz. Then I had best 

Boll to their door in lacqueyed equipage, 
And dole my halfpence from a satin purse — 
I am their sister — I must look like one. 
I am their queen — I'll prove myself the greatest 
By being the minister of all. So come — 
Now to my pastime. [Aside. ] 

And in happy toil 
Forget this whirl of doubt — We are weak, we are 

weak, 
Only when still — put thou thine hand to the plough, 
The spirit drives thee on. 

Isen. You live too fast ! 

Eliz. Too fast ? We live too slow — our gummy 
blood 



112 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Without fresh purging airs from heaven, would 

choke 
Slower and slower, till it stopped and froze. 
God ! fight we not within a cursed world, 
Whose very air teems thick with leagued fiends — 
Each word we speak has infinite effects — 
Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell — 
And this our one chance through eternity 
To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake, 
Or like the meteor stone, though whelmed itself, 
Kindle the dry moors into fruitful blaze — 
And yet we live too fast ! 

Be earnest, earnest, earnest ; mad, if thou wilt : 
Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven, 
And that thy last deed ere the judgment-day. 
When all's done, nothing's done. There's rest 

above — 
Below let work be death, if work be love ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene VIII. 

ACharnber in the Castle. Counts Walter, Hugo,^?., 
Abbot, and Kniglds. 

Count Hugo. I can't forget it, as I am a Christian 
man. To ask for a stoup of beer at breakfast, and 
be told, there was no beer allowed in the house — 
her Ladyship had given all the malt to the poor. 



scene viil] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 113 

Abbot. To give away the staff of life, eh ? 

O. Hugo. The life itself, sir, the life itself. All 
that barley, that would have warmed many an honest 
fellow's coppers, wasted in filthy cakes. 

Abbot. The parent of seraphic ale degraded into 
plebeian dough ! Indeed, sir, we have no right to 
lessen wantonly the amount of human enjoy- 
ment ! 

O. Wal. In heaven's name, what would you have 
her do, while the people were eating grass ? 

C. Hugo. Nobody asked them to eat it ; nobody 
asked them to be there to eat it ; if they will breed 
like rabbits, let them feed like rabbits, say I — I 
never married till I could keep a wife. 

Abbot. Ah, Count Walter ! How sad to see a man 
of your sense so led away by his feelings ! Had but 
this dispensation been left to work itself out, and 
evolve the blessing implicit in all heaven's chasten- 
ings ! Had but the stern benevolences of providence 
remained undisturbed by her ladyship's carnal ten- 
derness — what a boon had this famine been ! 

C. Wal. How then, man ? 

Abbot. How many a poor soul would have been 
lying — Ah, blessed thought ! — in Abraham's bosom ; 
who must now toil on still in this vale of tears ! — 
Pardon this pathetic dew — I cannot but feel as a 
Churchman. 

H 



114 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

3rd Count. Look at it in this way, sir. There are 
too many of us — too many — Where you have one 
job you have three workmen. Why, I threw three 
hundred acres into pasture myself this year — it 
saves money, and risk, and trouble, and tithes. 

C. Wal. What would you say to the Princess, 
who talks of breaking up all her parks to wheat next 
year? 

3rd Count. Ask her to take on the thirty families, 
who were just going to tramp off those three hundred 
acres into the Rhine-land, if she had not kept them in 
both senses this winter, and left them on my hands — 
once beggars, always beggars. 

C. Hugo. Well, I'm a practical man, and I say, 
the sharper the famine, the higher are prices, and 
the higher I sell, the more I can spend ; so the money 
circulates, sir, that's the word — like water — sure to 
run downwards again ; and so it's as broad as it's 
long ; and here's a health — if there was any beer — - 
to the farmer's friends, " A bloody war and a wet 
harvest." 

Allot. Strongly put, though correctly. For the 
self-interest of each it is, which produces in the 
aggregate the happy equilibrium of all. 

C. Wal. Well — the world is right well made, 
that's certain ; and He who made the Jews' sin our 
salvation may bring plenty out of famine, and com- 



scene vm.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 115 

fort out of covet ousn ess. But look you, sirs, pri- 
vate selfishness may be public weal, and yet private 
selfishness be just as surely damned, for all 
that. 

3rd Count. I hold, sir, that every alms is a fresh 
badge of slavery. 

C. Wal. I don't deny it. 

3rd Count. Then teach them independence. 

C. Wal. How ? By tempting them to turn 
thieves, when begging fails? By keeping their 
stomachs just at desperation-point ? By starving 
them out here, to march off, starving all the way, 
to some town, in search of employment, of which, 
if they find it, they know no more than my horse ? 
Likely ! No, sir, to make men of them, put them 
not out of the reach, but out of the need, of 
charity. 

3rd Count. And how, prithee ? By teaching them, 
like our fair Landgravine, to open their mouths for 
all that drops ? Thuringia is become a kennel of 
beggars in her hands. 

C. Wal. In hers ? In ours, sir ! 

Abbot. Idleness, sir, deceit, and immorality, are 
the three children of this same barbarous self-in- 
dulgence in alms-giving. Leave the poor alone. Let 
want teach them the need of self-exertion, and misery 
prove the foolishness of crime. 

h 2 



■ 



116 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

C. Wal. How ? Teach them to become men by 
leaving them brutes ? 

Allot. Oh, sir, there we step in, with the con- 
solations and instructions of the faith. 

C. Wal. Ay, but while the grass is growing the 
steed is starving ; and in the mean time, how will 
the callow chick Grace, stand against the tough old 
game-cock Hunger ? 

3rd Count. Then bow, in the name of patience, 
would you have us alter things ? 

C. Wal. We cannot alter them, sir — but they will 
be altered, never fear. 

Ornnes. How ? How ? 

C. Wal. Do you see this hour-glass ? — Here's the 
state — this air stands for the idlers ; — this sand for 
the workers. When all the sand has run to the 
bottom, God in heaven just turns the hour-glass, 
and then — 

C. Hugo. The world's upside down. 

C. Wal. And the Lord have mercy upon us ! 

Oinnes. On us ? Do you call us the idlers ? 

C. Wal. Some dare to do so — But fear not — In 
the fulness of time, all that's lightest is sure to come 
to the top again. 

C. IT. But what rascal calls us idlers ? 

Omnes. Name, name. 

C. Wal. Why, if you ask me — I heard a shrewd 



scene Yin.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 117 

sermon the other day on that same idleness and im- 
morality text of the Abbot's. — 'Tvvas Conrad, the 
Princess's director, preached it. And a fashionable 
cap it is, though it will fit more than will like to 
wear it. Shall I give it you ? Shall I preach ? 

C. S. A tub for Yarila ! Stand on the table, 
now, toss back thy hood like any Franciscan, and 
preach away. 

C. Wal. Idleness, quoth he (Conrad, mind you), — 
idleness and immorality ? Where have they learnt 
them, but from you nobles ? There was a saucy 
monk, for you. But there's worse coming. Re- 
ligion ? said he, how can they respect it, when they 
see you, ' their betters,' fattening on church lands, 
neglecting sacraments, defying excommunications, 
trading in benefices, hiring the clergy for your 
puppets and flatterers, making the ministry, the 
episcopate itself, a lumber-room wherein to stow 
away the idiots and spendthrifts of your families, 
the confidants of your mistresses, the cast-off* peda- 
gogues of your boys ? 

Omnes. The scoundrel ! 

C. Wal. Was he not ? — But hear again — Immo- 
rality ? roars he ; and who has corrupted them but 
you ? Have not you made every castle a weed-bed, 
from which the newest corruptions of the Court stick 
like thistle-down, about the empty heads of stable - 



118 THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. [act ii. 

boys and serving-maids ? Have you not kept the poor 
worse housed than your dogs and your horses, worse 
fed than your pigs and your sheep ? Is there an 
ancient house among you, again, of which village 
gossips do not whisper some dark story of lust and 
oppression, of decrepit debauchery, of hereditary 
doom ? 

Omnes. We'll hang this monk. 

C. Wal. Hear me out, and you'll burn him. His 
sermon was like a hail-storm, the tail of the shower 
the sharpest. Idleness ? he asked next of us all : 
How will they work, when they see you landlords 
sitting idle above them, in a fool's paradise of luxur}^ 
and riot, never looking down but to squeeze from 
them an extra drop of honey — like sheep-boys stuff- 
ing themselves with blackberries while the sheep are 
licking up flukes in every ditch ? And now you 
wish to leave the poor man in the slough, whither 
your neglect and your example have betrayed him, 
and made his too apt scholarship the excuse for your 
own remorseless greed ? As a Christian, I am 
ashamed of you all ; as a Churchman, doubly ashamed 
of those prelates, hired stalking-horses of the rich, 
who would fain gloss over their own sloth and 
cowardice with the wisdom which cometh not from 
above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish ; aping the 
heartless cant of an aristocracy who made them 



scene viii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 119 

— use them — and despise them. That was his 
sermon. 

Abbot. Paul and Barnabas ! What an outpouring 
of the spirit ! — Were not his hoodship the Pope's 
legate, now — accidents might happen to him, going 
home at night ; eh, Sir Hugo ? 

0. H. If he would but come my way ! 

For ' the mule it was slow, and the lane it was 

dark, 
' When out of the copse leapt a gallant, young 

spark, 
6 Says, ' 'Tis not for nought you've been begging 

all day : 
1 ' So remember your toll, since you travel our 

way.' ' 

Abbot. Hush ! Here comes the Landgrave. 

Lewis enters. 

Lew. Good morrow, gentles. Why so warm, Count 
Walter ? 
Your blessing, Father Abbot : what deep matters 
Have called our worships to this conference ? 

C. H. \_Aside.~\ Up, Count ; you are spokesman. 

3rd Count. Most exalted Prince, 

Whose peerless knighthood, like the remeant sun, 
After too long a night, regilds our clay, 



120 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Late silvered by the reflex lunar beams 
Of your celestial lady's matron graces — 

Allot [_Aside.~\ Ut vinum optimum amati mei 
Dulciter descendens ! 

3rd Count. Think not we mean to praise or dis- 
approve — 
The acts of saintly souls must only plead 
In foro conscientise : grosser minds, 
Whose humbler aim is but the public weal, 
Know of no mesh which holds them : yet, great 

prince, 
Some dare not see their sovereign's strength post- 
poned 
To private grace, and sigh, that generous hearts, 
And ladies' tenderness, too oft forgetting 
That wisdom is the highest charity, 
Will interfere, in pardonable haste, 
With heaven's stern providence. 

Lew. We see your drift. 

Go, sirrah, \_To a Page] pray the Princess to illumine 
Our conclave with her beauties. 'Tis our manner 
To hear no cause, of gentle or of simple, 
Unless the accused and the accuser both 
Meet face to face. 

3rd Count. Excuse, high-mightiness, — 

We bring no accusation ; facts, your Highness, 
Wait for your sentence, not our prsejudicium. 






scene vm.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 121 

Lew. Give us the facts, then, sir ; in the lady's 
presence, 
Her nearness to ourselves — perchance her reasons — 
May make them somewhat dazzling. 

Alb. Nay, my Lord ; 

I, as a Churchman, though with these your nobles 
Both in commission and opinion one, 
Am yet most loth, my lord, to set my seal 
To aught which this harsh world might call com- 
plaint 
Against a princely saint — a chosen vessel — 
An argosy celestial — in whom error 
Is but the young luxuriance of her grace. 
The Count of Yarila, as bound to neither, 
For both shall speak, and all which late has passed 
Upon the matter of this famine open. 

C. Wal. Why, if I must speak out — then I'll con- 
fess 
To have stood by, and seen the Landgravine 
Do most strange deeds ; and in her generation 
Show no more wit than other babes of light. 
First, she has given away, to starving rascals, 
The stores of grain, she might have sold, good lack ! 
For any price she asked ; has pawned your jewels, 
And mortgaged sundry farms, and all for food. 
Has sunk vast sums in fever-hospitals, 
For rogues whom famine sickened — almshouses 



122 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

For sluts whose husbands died — schools for their 

brats. 
Most sad vagaries ! but there's worse to come. 
The dulness of the Court has ruined trade : 
The jewellers and clothiers don't come near us ; 
The sempstresses, my lord, and pastrycooks 
Have quite forgot their craft; she has turned all 

heads, 
And made the ladies starve, and wear old clothes, 
And run about with her to nurse the sick, 
Instead of putting gold in circulation 
By balls, sham-fights, and dinners ; 'tis most sad, sir, 
But she has swept your treasury out as clean — 
As was the widow's cruse, who fed Elijah. 

Lew. Euined, no doubt ! Lo ! here the culprit 
comes. [Elizabeth enters. 

Come hither, dearest. These, my knights and nobles, 
Lament your late unthrift ; (your conscience speaks 
The causes of their blame ;) and wish you warned, 
As wisdom is the highest charity, 
No more to interfere, from private feeling 
With heaven's stern laws, or maim the sovereign's 

wealth, 
To save superfluous villains' worthless lives. 

LJUz. Lewis ! 

Lew. Not I, fair, but my counsellors, 

In courtesy, need some reply. 



scene viil] THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. 123 

Miz. My Lords ; 

Doubtless, you speak but as your duty bids you : 
I know you love my husband : do you think 
My love is less than yours ? 'Tvvas for his honour 
I dared not lose a single silly sheep 
Of all the flock which God had trusted to him. 
True, I had hoped by this — No matter what — 
Since to your sense it bears a different hue. 
I keep no logic. For my gifts, thank God, 
They cannot be recalled ; for those poor souls, 
My pensioners — even for my husband' s knightly name, 
Oh ! ask not back that slender loan of comfort 
My folly has procured them : if, my Lords, 
My public censure, or disgraceful penance 
May expiate, and yet confirm my waste, 
I offer this poor body to the buffets 
Of sternest justice : where I dared not spare 
My husband's lands, I dare not spare myself. 

Lew. No ! no ! My noble sister ? What ? my Lords ! 
If her love move you not, her wisdom may. 
She knows a deeper statecraft, sirs, than you ; 
She will not throw away the substance, Abbot, 
To save the accident ; waste living souls 
To keep, or hope to keep, the means of life. 
Our wisdom and our swords may fill our coffers, 
But will they breed us men, my Lords, or mothers ? 
God blesses in the camp a noble rashness : 



1 24 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Then why not in the storehouse ? He that lends 
To Him, need never fear to lose his venture. 
Spend on, my Queen. You will not sell my castles ? 
Nay, you must leave us Neuburg, love, and Wart- 
burg. 
Their worn old stones will hardly pay the carriage, 
And foreign foes may pay untimely visits. 

C. Wal. And home foes, too : if these philosophers 
Put up the curb, my Lord, a half-link tighter, 
The scythes will be among our horses' legs 
Before next harvest. 

Lew, Fear not for our welfare : 

We have a guardian here, well skilled to keep 
Peace for our seneschal, while angels, stooping 
To catch the tears she sheds for us in absence, 
Will sain us from the roaming adversary 
With scents of Paradise. Farewell, my Lords. 

Eliz. Nay, — I must pray your knighthoods — 
You must honour 
Our dais and bower as private guests to-day. 
Thanks for your gentle warning ; may my weakness 
To such a sin be never tempted more ! 

[Exeunt Elizabeth and Lewis. 

C. Wal. Thus, as if virtue were not its own reward, 
is it paid over and above with beef and ale ? Weep 
not, tender-hearted Count ! Though ' generous 
hearts,' my Lord, ' and ladies' tenderness, too oft 



scekeviii.] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. 125 

forget ' — Truly spoken ! Lord Abbot, does not 
your spiritual eye discern coals of fire on Count 
Hugo's head ? 

C. Hugo. Where, and a plague ? Where ? 

C. Wal. Nay, I speak mystically, — there is 
nought there but what beer will quench before 
nightfall. Here, peeping rabbit, [To a Page at the 
door,~\ out of your burrow, and show these gentles 
to their lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. 

\They go out. 

C. Wal. \_Alone.~] Well : — if Hugo is a brute, he 
at least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, 
and honest ; he wears his tushes outside, for a warn- 
ing to all men. But for the rest ! — Whited se- 
pulchres ! and not one of them but has half 
persuaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all 
cruelties, save me from your small pedant, — your 
closet philosopher, who has just courage enough to 
bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it 
will carry him. In experience — a child : in obstinacy 
a woman : in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping : 
instead of God's grace, a few schoolboy saws about 
benevolence, and industry, and independence — there 
is his metal. If the world will be mended on his 
principles, well. If not, poor world ! — but principles 
must be carried out, though through blood and 
famine : for truly, man was made for theories, not 



126 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

theories for man. A doctrine is these men's God 
— touch but that shrine, and lo ! your simpering 
philanthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican. 

\JEadt. 

Scene IX. 

Elizabeth's Bower. Elizabeth and Lewis sit- 
ting together. 

SONG. 

Eliz. Oh ! that we two were Maying 

Down the stream of the soft spring breeze ; 
Like children with violets playing 
In the shade of the whispering trees. 

Oh ! that we two sat dreaming 
On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down, 
Watching the white mist steaming 
Over river and mead and town. 

Oh ! that we two lay sleeping 

In our nest in the churchyard sod, 

With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's 

breast, 
And our souls at home with God ! 

Lew. Ah, turn away those swarthy diamonds' 
blaze ! 
Mine eyes are dizzy, and my faint sense reels 



scene ix.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 127 

In the rich fragrance of those purple tresses. 
Oh, to be thus, and thus, day after day ! 
To sleep, and wake, and find it yet no dream — 
My atmosphere, my hourly food, such bliss 
As to have dreamt of, five short years agone, 
Had seemed a mad conceit. 

Eliz. Five years agone ? 

Lew. I know not ; for upon our marriage-day 
I slipped from time into eternity ; 
Where each day teems with centuries of life, . 
And centuries were but one wedding morn. 

JEliz. Lewis, I am too happy ! floating higher 
Than e'er my will had dared to soar, though able ; 
But circumstance, which is the will of God, 
Beguiled my cowardice to that, which, darling, 
I found most natural, when I feared it most. 
Love would have had no strangeness in mine eyes, 
Save from the prejudice which others taught me — 
They should know best. Yet now this wedlock 

seems 
A second infancy's baptismal robe, 
A heaven, my spirit's antenatal home, 
Lost in blind pining girlhood — found now, found ! 
[Aside. ~\ What have I said ? Do I blaspheme ? 

Alas! 
I neither made these thoughts, nor can unmake 
them. 



128 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act 11. 

Lew. Ay, marriage is the life-long miracle, 
The self-begetting wonder, daily fresh ; 
The Eden, where the spirit and the flesh 
Are one again, and new-born souls walk free, 
And name in mystic language all things new, 
Naked, and not ashamed. [Eliz. hides Tier face. 

JEliz. Oh ! God ! were that true ! 

[Clasps him round the neck. 
There, there, no more — 

I love thee, and I love thee, and I love thee — 
More than rich thoughts can dream, or mad lips 

speak ; 
But how, or why, whether with soul or body, 
I will not know. Thou art mine. — Why question 

further ? 
[Aside.'] Ay if 1 fall by loving, I will love, 
And be degraded ! — how ? by my own troth- 
plight ? 
No, but by thinking that I fall. — 'Tis written 
That whatsoe'er is not of faith is sin. — 
Oh ! Jesu Lord ! Hast Thou not made me thus ? 
Mercy ! My brain will burst : I cannot leave him ! 

Lew. Beloved, if I went away to war — 

Eliz. Oh, God ! More wars ? More partings ? 

Lew. Nay, my sister — 

My trust but longs to glory in its surety : 
What would'st thou do ? 



scene ix.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 129 

JEliz. What I have done already^ 

Have I not followed thee, through drought and frost, 
Through flooded swamps, rough glens, and wasted 

lands, 
Even while I panted most with thy dear loan 
Of double life ? 

Lew. My saint ! but what if I bid thee 

To be my seneschal, and here with prayers, 
With sober thrift, and noble bounty shine, 
Alone and peerless ? And suppose — nay, start not — * 
I only said suppose — the war was long, 
Our camps far off, and that some winter, love, 
Or two, pent back this Eden stream, where now 
Joys upon joys like sunlit ripples pass, 
Alike, yet ever new. — What would'st thou do, love ? 
ffliz. A year ? A year ! A cold, blank, widowed 
year! 
Strange, that mere words should chill my heart with 
fear — 

This is no hall of doom, 
No impious Soldan's feast of old, 
Where o'er the madness of the foaming gold, 
A fleshless hand its woe on tainted walls enrolled. 
Yet by thy wild words raised, 
In Love's most careless revel, 
Looms through the future's fog a shade of evil, 
And all my heart is glazed. — 

I 



130 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Alas ! What would I do ? 
I would lie down and weep, and weep, 
Till the salt current of my tears should sweep 
My soul, like floating weed, adown a fitful sleep, 

A lingering half-night through. 
Then when the mocking hells did wake 
My hollow eyes to twilight gray, 
I would address my spiritless limbs to pray, 
And nerve myself with stripes to meet the weary day 
And labour for thy sake. 
Until by vigils, fasts and tears, 
The flesh was grown so spare and light, 
That I could slip its mesh, and flit by night 
O'er sleeping sea and land to thee — or Christ — till 
morning light. 
Peace ! Why these fears ? 
Life is too short for mean anxieties : 
Soul ! thou must work, though blindfold. 

Come, beloved, 
I must turn robber. — I have begged of late 
So oft, I fear to ask. — Give me thy purse. 

Lew, No, not my purse : — stay — Where is all that 
gold 
I gave you, when the Jews came here from Koln ? 
Eliz. Oh, those few coins ? I spent them all next 
day 
On a new chapel on the Eisenthal ; 



scene ix.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 131 

There were no choristers but nightingales — 
No teachers there save bees : how long is this ? 
Have you turned niggard ? 

Lew. Nay ; go ask my steward — 

Take what you will — this purse I want myself. 
JEliz. Ah ! now I guess. You have some trinket 
for me — 
You promised late to buy no more such baubles — 
And now you are ashamed. — Nay, I must see — 

\_Snatches Ms purse. Lewis hides his face. 
Ah, God ! what's here ? A new crusader's cross ? 
Whose ? Nay, nay — turn not from me ; I guess 

all— 
You need not tell me ; it is very well — 
According to the meed of my deserts : 
Yes — very well. 

Lew. Ah ! love — look not so calm — 

JEliz. Fear not — I shall weep soon. 

How long is it since you vowed ? 

Lew. A week or more. 

JEliz. Brave heart ! And all that time your ten- 
derness 
Kept silence, knowing my weak foolish soul. [ Weeps. 
Oh, love ! Oh, life ! Late found, and soon, soon 

lost ! 
A bleak sunrise, — a treacherous morning gleam, — 
And now, ere mid-day, all my sky is black 

i 2 



132 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

With whirling drifts once more ! The march is fixed 
For this day month, is't not ? 

Lew. Alas, too true ! 

Eliz. break not, heart ! [Conrad enters. 

Ah ! here my master comes, 
No weeping before him. 

Lew. Speak to the holy man : 

He can give strength and comfort, which poor I 
Need even more than you. Here, saintly master, 
I leave her to your holy eloquence. Farewell ! 
God help us both ! [Exit Lewis. 

Eliz. (Buing?) You know, Sir, that my husband 
has taken the cross ? 

Con. I do ; all praise to God ! 

Eliz. But none to you : 

Hard-hearted ! Am I not enough your slave ? 
Can I obey you more when he is gone 
Than now I do ? Wherein, pray, has he hindered 
This holiness of mine, for which you make me 
Old ere my womanhood ! [Conrad offers to go. 

Stay, Sir, and tell me 
Is this the out-come of your "father's care?" 
Was it not enough to poison all my joys 
With foulest scruples ? — show me nameless sins, 
Where I, unconscious babe, blessed God for all 

things, 
But you must thus intrigue away my night 



scene ix.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 133 

And plunge me down this gulf of widowhood ! 
And I not twenty yet — a girl — an orphan — 
That cannot stand alone ! Was I too happy ? 
Oh, God ! what lawful bliss do I not buy 
And balance with the smart of some sharp penance ? 
Hast thou no pity ? None ? Thou drivest me 
To fiendish doubts : Thou, Jesus' messenger ! 

Con. This to your master ! 

Eliz. This to any one 

Who dares to part me from my love. 

Con. 'Tis well— 

In pity to your weakness I must deign 
To do what ne'er I did — excuse myself. 
I say, I knew not of your husband's purpose ; 
God's spirit, not I, moved him : perhaps I sinned 
In that I did not urge it myself. 

Eliz. Thou traitor ! 

So thou would' st part us ? 

Con. Aught that makes thee greater 

I'll dare, this very outburst proves in thee 
Passions unsanctified, and carnal leanings 
Upon the creatures thou would'st fain transcend. 
Thou badest me cure thy weakness. Lo, God brings 

thee 
The tonic cup I feared to mix : — be brave — 
Drink it to the lees, and thou shalt find within 
A pearl of price. 



134 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Eliz. 'Tis bitter ! 

Con. Bitter, truly : 

Even I, to whom the storm of earthly love 
Is but a dim remembrance — Courage ! Courage ! 
There's glory in't ; fulfil thy sacrifice ; 
Give up thy noblest on the noblest service 
God's sun has looked on, since the chosen twelve 
Went conquering, and to conquer, forth. If he fall — 

Eliz. Oh, spare mine ears ! 

Con. He falls a blessed martyr, 

To bid thee welcome through the gates of pearl ; 
And next to his shall thine own guerdon be 
If thou devote him willing to thy God. 
Wilt thou ? 

Eliz. Have mercy ! 

Con. Wilt thou ? Sit not thus 

Watching the sightless air : no angel in it 
But asks thee what I ask : the fiend alone 
Delays thy coward flesh. Wilt thou devote him ? 

Eliz. I will devote him ; — a crusader's wife ! 
I'll glory in it. Thou speakest words from God — 
And God shall have him! Go now — good, my master; 
My poor brain swims. [Exit Conrad. 

Yes — a crusader's wife ! 
And a crusader's widow ! 
[Bursts into tears, and dashes herself on the floor. ~\ 



scene x.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 135 

Scene X. 

A Street in the Town of Schmaleald. Bodies of 
Crusading Troops defiling past. Lewis and 
Elizabeth with their Suite in the foreground. 

Lew. Alas ! the time is near ; I must be gone — 
There are our liegemen ; how you'll welcome us, 
Eeturned in triumph, bowed with paynim spoils, 
Beneath the victor cross, to part no more ! 

Eliz. Yes — we shall part no more, where next we 
meet. 
Enough to have stood here once on such an errand ! 

Lew. The bugle calls.— Farewell, my love, my 
lady, 
Queen, sister, saint ! One last long kiss — Farewell ! 

JEliz. One kiss — and then another — and another — 
Till 'tis too late to go — and so return — 
Oh God ! forgive that craven thought ! There, 

take him 
Since Thou dost need him. I have kept him ever 
Thine, when most mine ; and shall I now deny Thee ? 
Oh ! go — yes, go — Thou'lt not forget to pray, 

[Lewis goes. 
With me, at our old hour ? Alas ! he's gone 
And lost — thank God he hears me not — for ever. 
Why look'st thou so, poor girl ? I say, for ever. 



136 THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. [act ii. 

The day I found the bitter blessed cross, 
Something did strike my heart like keen cold steel, 
Which quarries daily there with dead dull pains — 
Whereby I know that we shall meet no more. 
Come ! Home, maids, home ! Prepare me widow's 

weeds — 
For he is dead to me, and I must soon 
Die too to him, and many things ; and mark me — 
Breathe not his name, lest this love-pampered heart 
Should sicken to vain yearnings — Lost ! lost ! lost ! 
Lady. Oh stay, and watch this pomp. 
JEliz. Well said — we'll stay ; so this bright 

enterprise 
Shall blanch our private clouds, and steep our soul 
Drunk with the spirit of great Christendom. 

Cbttsader Choetjs. 
[Men at Arms pass singing.'] 

The tomb of God before us, 

Our fatherland behind, 

Our ships shall leap o'er billows steep, 

Before a charmed wind. 

Above our van great angels 

Shall fight along the sky ; 

While martyrs pure and crowned saints, 

To God for rescue cry. 



scene x.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 137 

The red-cross knights and yeomen 
Throughout the holy town, 
In faith and might, on left and right, 
Shall tread the paynim down. 

Till on the Mount Moriah 
The Pope of Eome shall stand ; 
The Kaiser and the King of France 
Shall guard him on each hand. 

There shall he rule all nations, 
With crozier and with sword ; 
And pour on all the heathen, 
The wrath of Christ the Lord. 



[ Women — 'bystanders.'] 

Christ is a rock in the bare salt land, 

To shelter our knights from the sun and sand; 

Christ the Lord is a summer sun, 

To ripen the grain while they are gone. 

Then you who fight in the bare salt land, 
And you who work at home, 
Fight and work for Christ the Lord, 
Until His kingdom come. 



138 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act n. 

\0l& Knights pass, ,] 

Our stormy sun is sinking ; 
Our sands are running low ; 
In one fair fight, before the night, 
Our hard-worn hearts shall glow. 

We cannot pine in cloister ; 

We cannot fast and pray ; 

The sword which built our load of guilt, 

Must wipe that guilt away. 

We know the doom before us ; 
The dangers of the road ; 
Have mercy, mercy, Jesu blest, 
When we lie low in blood. 

When we lie gashed and gory, 
The holy walls within, 
Sweet Jesu, think upon our end, 
And wipe away our sin. 

[Boy Crusaders pass."] 

The Christ -child sits on high : 
He looks through the merry blue sky ; 
He holds in His hand a bright lily -band, 
For the boys who for Him die. 



scene x.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 139 

On holy Mary's arm, 
Wrapt safe from terror and harm, 
Lulled by the breeze in the paradise trees, 
Their souls sleep soft and warm. 

Knight David, young and true, 

The giant Soldan slew, 

And our arms so light, for the Christ-child's 

right, 
Like noble deeds can do. 

[ Young Knights pass."] 

The rich East blooms fragrant before us ; 

All Fairy-land beckons us forth ; 

We must follow the crane in her flight o'er the main, 

From the posts and the moors of the North. 

Our sires in the youth of the nations 
Swept westward through plunder and blood, 
But a holier quest calls us back to the East, 
We fight for the kingdom of God. 

Then shrink not, and sigh not, fair ladies, 

The red cross which flames on each arm and each 

shield, 
Through philtre and spell, and the black charms of 

hell, 
Shall shelter our true love in camp and in field. 



140 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

[Old Monk looking after them.'] 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! 

The burying place of God ! 

Why gay and bold, in steel and gold, 

O'er the paths where Christ hath trod ? 

[The Scene closes. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. 

A Chamber in the Wartburg. Elizabeth sitting in 
Widow's weeds ; GrUTA and Isentettdis by her. 

Isen. What ? Always thus, my princess ? Is this 
wise, 
By day with fasts, and ceaseless coil of labour ; 
About the ungracious poor — hands, eyes, feet, brain, 
O'ertasked alike — 'mid sin and filth, which make 
Each sense a plague — by night with cruel stripes, 
And weary watchings on the freezing stone, 
To double all your griefs, and burn life's candle, 
As village gossips say, at either end ? 
The good book bids the heavy-hearted drink, 
And so forget their woe. 

JEliz. 'Tis written too 

In that same book, nurse, that the days shall come, 
When the bridegroom shall be taken away — and 

then — 
Then shall they mourn and fast ; I needed weaning 



142 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

From sense and earthly joys ; by this way only 
May I win God to leave in mine own hands 
My luxury's cure : oh ! I may bring him back, 
By working out to its full depth the chastening 
The need of which his loss proves : I but barter 
Less grief for greater — pain for widowhood. 

Isen. And death for life — your cheeks are wan and 
sharp 
As any three-days' moon — you are shifting always 
Uneasily and stiff, now, on your seat, 
As from some secret pain. 

JEliz. Why watch me thus ? 

You cannot know — and yet you know too much — 
I tell you, nurse, pain's comfort, when the flesh 
Aches with the aching soul in harmony, 
And even in woe, we are one : the heart must speak , 
Its passion's strangeness in strange symbols out, 
Or boil, till it bursts inly. 

Chita. Yet, methinks, 

You might have made this widowed solitude 
A holy rest — a spell of soft grey weather, 
Beneath whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts 
Might bud and burgeon. 

JEliz. That's a gentle dream 

But nature shows nought like it : every winter, 
When the great sun has turned his face away, 
The earth goes down into the vale of grief, 






scene I.] THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. 143 

And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, 
Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay — 
Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses — 
As I may yet ! — 

Isen. There, now — my foolish child ! 

You faint : come — come to your chamber — 

JEliz. Oh, forgive me ! 

But hope at times throngs in so rich and full, 
It mads the brain like wine : come with me, nurse, 
Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales 
Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood, 
Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries, 
Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe. 
Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands 
Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years, 
Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses 
Wove to her pearled feet their golden shroud. 
Come, open all your lore. 

[Sophia and Agnes enter.'] 

My mother-in-law ! 
[Aside.] Shame on thee, heart ! why sink, whene'er 
we meet ? 
Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of 
metal 
Beyond us worldlings : shrink not, if the time 
Be come which needs its use — 



144 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act hi. 

Miz. What means this preface ? Ah ! your looks 
are big 
With sudden woes — speak out. 

Soph. Be calm, and hear 

The will of God toward my son, thy husband. 
Miz. What ? is he captive ? Why then — what 
of that ? 
There are friends will rescue him — there's gold for 

ransom — 
We'll sell our castles — live in bowers of rushes — 
Oh God ! that I were with him in the dungeon ! 
Soph. He is not taken. 

Miz. No ! he would have fought to the death ! 
There's treachery ! What paynim dog dare face 
His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage, 
And eyed the cowering monster to his den ? 
Speak ! Has he fled ? or worse ? 

Soph. Child, he is dead. 

Miz. [Clasping her hands on her Jcnees.~\ The 

world is dead to me, and all its smiles ! 
Isen. Oh, woe ! my prince ! and doubly woe, my 
daughter ! 

[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out. 
Oh, stop her — stop my child ! She will go mad — 
Dash herself down — Fly — Fly — She is not made 
Of hard, light stuff, like you. 

[Isentrudis and Guta run out. 



scene t] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 145 

Soph. I had expected some such passionate out- 
break 
At the first news : you see now, Lady Agnes, 
These saints, who fain would ' wean themselves from 

earth,' 
Still yield to the affections they despise 
When the game's earnest — Now — ere they return — 

Your brother, child, is dead 

Agnes. I know it too well, 

So young — so brave — so blest ! — And she — she 

loved him — 
Oh ! I repent of all the foolish scoffs 
With which I crossed her. 

Soph. Yes — the Landgrave's dead — 

Attend to me — Alas ! my son ! my son ! 
He was my first-born ! But he has a brother — 
Agnes ! we must not let this foreign gipsy, 
Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress, 
Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands, 
To my son's prejudice — There are barons, child, 
Who will obey a knight, but not a saint : 
I must at once to them. 

Agnes. Oh, let me stay ! 

Soph. As you shall please — Your brother's land- 
gravate 
Is somewhat to you, surely — -and your smiles 
Are worth gold pieces in a court intrigue. 

K 



146 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act lit, 

For her, on her own principles, a dovvnfal 
Is a chastening mercy — and a likely one. 
Agnes. Oh ! let me stay, and comfort her ! 
Soph. Romance ! 

You girls adore a scene — as lookers on. 

[Exit Sophia. 
Agnes. [Alone."] Well spoke the old monks, peace- 
ful watching life's turmoil, 
'Eyes which look heaven-ward, weeping still we 

see: 
' God's love with keen flame purges, like the lightning 

flash, 
i Gold which is purest, purer still must be.' 

[Guta enters?^ 
Alas ! Eeturned alone ! Where has my sister been ? 
Guta. Thank heaven, you hear alone, for such sad 
sight would haunt 
Henceforth your young hopes — crush your shudder- 
ing fancy down 
With dread of like fierce anguish. 

Agnes. Speak ! Oh, speak ! 

Guta, You saw her bound forth : we towards her 
bower in haste 
Ean trembling : spell-bound there, before her bridal- 
bed 
She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the 
northern dawn, 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 147 

Across her worn cheek's ice-field ; keenest memories 

then 
Bushed with strong shudderings through her — as 

the winged shaft 
Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled 

her forth 
Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and 

corridor, 
Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly 

wind 
Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty 

helms 
Along the walls rang clattering, and above her 

waved 
Dead heroes' banners : swift and yet more swift she 

drove 
Still seeking aimless ; sheer against the opposing 

wall 
At last dashed reckless — there with frantic fingers 

clutched 
Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage 
Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe, 
With inarticulate moans, and folded hands, 
She followed those who led her, as if the sun 
On her life's dial had gone back seven years, 
And she were once again the dumb sad child 
We knew her ere she married. 

k 2 



148 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act in. 

Isen. [entering^ As after wolf wolf presses, leap- 
ing through the snow-glades, 
So woe on woe throngs surging up. 

Guta. What ? treason ? 

Isen. Treason, and of the foulest. From her state 
she's rudely thrust ; 
Her keys are seized ; her weeping babies pent from 

her : 
The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance, 
And greet their fallen censor's new mischance. 

Agnes. Alas ! Who dared to do this wrong ? 

Isen. Your mother and your mother's son — 
Judge you, if it was knightly done. 

Guta. See ! see ! she comes, with heaving breast, 
With bursting eyes, and purpled brow : 
Oh that the traitors saw her now ! 
They know not, sightless fools, the heart they break, 

[Elizabeth enters slowlyJ] 

Uliz. He is in purgatory now ! Alas ! 
Angels ! be pitiful ! deal gently with him ! 
His sins were gentle ! That's one cause left for 

living — 
To pray, and pray for him : why all these months 
I prayed, — and here's my answer : Dead of a fever ! 
Why thus ? so soon ! Only six years for love ! 
While any formal, heartless matrimony, 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 149 

Patched up by Court intrigues, and threats of 

cloisters, 
Drags on for six times six, and peasant slaves 
Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand 
Slip from life's oozy bank, to float at ease. 

[A knocking at the door. 
That's some petitioner. 
Go to — I will not hear them : why should I work, 
When he is dead ? Alas ! was that my sin ? 
Was he, not Christ, my lode-star ? Why not warn me ? 
Too late ! What's this foul dream ? Dead at 

Otranto — 
Parched by Italian suns — no woman by him — 
He was too chaste ! Nought but rude men to nurse ! — 
If I had been there, I should have watched by him — 
Guessed every fancy — God ! I might have saved 
him ! \A servant-man bursts in. 

Servant. Madam, the Landgrave gave me strict 
commands — 
Isen. The Landgrave, dolt ? 

JEliz. I might have saved him ! 

Servant. [Jo Isen.~\ Ay, saucy madam ! — 
The Landgrave Henry, lord and master, 
Freer than the last, and yet no waster, 
Who will not stint a poor knave's beer, 
Or spin out Lent through half the year. 
Why — I see double ! 



150 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act in. 

JEliz. Who spoke there of the Landgrave? What's 
this drunkard ? 
Give him his answer — 'Tis no time for mumming — 

Serv. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you out 
Safe through his gates, and that at once, my Lady. 
Come ! 

JEliz. Why — that's hasty — I must take my chil- 
dren — 
Ah ! I forgot — they would not let me see them. 
I must pack up my jewels — 

Serv. You'll not need it — 

His Lordship has the keys. 

JEliz. He has indeed. 

Why, man ! — I am thy children's godmother — 
I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness — 
Art thou a bird, that when the old tree falls, 
Flits off, and sings in the sapling ? 

\TJie man seizes Iter arm. 

Keep thine hands off — 

I'll not be shamed — Lead on. Farewell, my 

Ladies. 
Follow not ! There's want to spare on earth already ; 
And mine own woe is weight enough for me. 
Go back, and say, Elizabeth has yet 
Eternal homes, built deep in poor men's hearts ; 
And, in the alleys underneath the wall, 
Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure,; 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 151 

More sure than adamant, purer than white whales' 

bone, 
Which now she claims. Lead on : a people's love 
shall right me. [Exit with servant. 

Guta. Where now, dame ? 

Isen. Where, but after her ? 

Guta. True heart ! 
I'll follow to the death. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. 

A Street. Elizabeth and Guta at the door of a 
Convent. Monks in the Porch. 

Eliz. You are afraid to shelter me — afraid. 
And so you thrust me forth, to starve and freeze. 
Soon said. Why palter o'er these mean excuses, 
Which tempt me to despise you ? 

Monks. Ah ! my lady, 

We know your kindness— but we poor religious — 
Are bound to obey God's ordinance, and submit 
Unto the powers that be, who have forbidden 
All men, alas ! to give you food or shelter. 

Eliz. Silence! I'll go. Better in God's hand 
than man's. 
He shall kill us, if we die. This bitter blast 
Warping the leafless willows, yon white snow-storms, 



152 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Whose wings, like vengeful angels, cope the vault, 
They are God's, — We'll trust to them. 

[Monks go in. 

Guta. Mean-spirited ! 

Fair frocks hide foul hearts. Why their altar now 
Is blazing with your gifts. 

Eliz. How long their altar ? 

To God I gave — and God shall pay me back. 
Fool ! to have put my trust in living man, 
And fancied that I bought God's love, by buying 
The greedy thanks of these His earthly tools ! 
Well — here's one lesson learnt ! I thank thee, 

Lord! 
Henceforth I'll straight to Thee, and to Thy poor. 
What ? Isentrudis not returned ? Alas ! 
Where are those children ? 

They will not have the heart to keep them from me — 
Oh ! have the traitors harmed them ? 

Guta. Do not think it. 

The dowager has a woman's heart. 

Eliz. Ay, ay — 

But she's a mother — and mothers will dare all 

things — 
Oh ! Love can make us fiends, as well as angels. 
My babies ! Weeping ? Oh have mercy, Lord ! 
On me heap all thy wrath — I understand it : 
What can blind senseless terror do for them ? 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 153 

Q-uta. Plead, plead your penances ! Great God, 

consider 
All she has done and suffered, and forbear 
To smite her like a worldling ? 

Eliz. Silence, girl ! 

I'd plead rny deeds, if mine own character, 
My strength of will had fathered them : but no — 
They are His, who worked them in me, in despite 
Of mine own selfish and luxurious will — 
Shall I bribe Him with His own ? For pain, I tell 

thee 
I need more pain than mine own will inflicts, 
Pain which shall break that will. — Yet spare them, 

Lord ! 
Go to — I am a fool to wish them life — 
And greater fool to miscall life, this headache — 
This nightmare of our gross and crude digestion — 
This fog which steams up from our freezing clay — 
While waking heaven's beyond. No ! slay them, 

traitors ! 
Cut through the channels of those innocent breaths 
Whose music charmed my lone nights, ere they learn 
To love the world, and hate the wretch who bore 

them ! [ JVeeps. 

Gut a. This storm will blind us both : come here, 

and shield you 
Behind this buttress. 



154 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, [act hi. 

Eliz. What's a wind to me ? 

I can see up the street here, if they come — 
They do not come ! — Oh ! my poor weanling lambs — 
Struck dead by carrion ravens ! 
What then, I have borne worse. But yesterday 
I thought I had a husband — and now — now ! 
Guta ! He called a holy man before he died ? 

Guta. The Bishop of Jerusalem, 'tis said, 
With holy oil, and with the blessed body 
Of Him for whom he died, did speed him duly 
Upon his heavenward flight. 

Eliz. Oh happy bishop ! 

Where are those children ? If I had but seen him* 
I could have borne all then. One word — one kiss! 
Hark ! What's that rushing ! White doves — one — 

two — three — 
Fleeing before the gale. My children's spirits ! 
Stay, babies — stay for me ! What ! Not a moment ? 
And T so nearly ready to be gone ? 

Guta. Still on your children ? 

Eliz. Oh ! this grief is light 

And floats a-top — well, well ; it hides awhile 
That gulf too black for speech — My husband's dead! 
I dare not think on't. 

A small bird dead in the snow ! Alas ! poor minstrel ! 
A week ago, before this very window, 
He warbled, may be, to the slanting sunlight; 



SCEXE ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 155 

And housewives blest him for a merry singer : 

And now he freezes at their doors, like me. 

Poor foolish brother ! didst thou look for payment ? 

Gut a. But thou hast light in darkness — He has 
none — 
The bird's the sport of time, while our life's floor 
Is laid upon eternity ; no crack in it 
But shows the underlying heaven. 

JEliz. Art sure ? 

Does this look like it, girl ! No — I'll trust yet — 
Some have gone mad for less ; but why should I ? 
"Who live in time, and not eternity. 
'Twill end, girl, end ; no cloud across the sun 
But passes at the last, and gives us back 
The face of God once more. 

Guta. See here they come, 

Dame Isentrudis and your children, all 
Safe down the cliff path, through the whirling snow- 
drifts. 

Miz. Oh Lord, my Lord ! I thank Thee ! 
Loving, and merciful, and tenderhearted, 
And even in fiercest wrath remembering mercy. 
Lo ! here's my ancient foe. What want you, Sir ? 

[Hugo enters. 

Hugo. Want ? Faith, 'tis you who want, not I, 
my Lady — 
I hear, you are gone a begging through the town j 



156 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

So for your husband's sake, I'll take you in ; 
For though I can't forget your scurvy usage, 
He was a very honest sort of fellow, 
Though mad as a March hare ; so come you in. 

JEliz. But know you, sir, that all my husband's 
vassals 
Are bidden bar their doors to me ? 

Hugo. I know it : 

And therefore come you in : my house is mine : 
No upstarts shall lay down the law to me ; 
Not they, mass : but mind you, no canting here — 
No psalm- singing ; all candles out at eight : 
Beggars must not be choosers. Come along ! 

Eliz. I thank you, Sir ; and for my children's 

sake 

I do accept your bounty. \_Aside.~] Down, proud 

heart — 
Bend lower — lower ever : thus God deals with thee. 
Go, Guta, send the children after me. 

\Plxeunt severally. 

\_Two Peasants enter.'] 

1st Peas. Here's Father January taken a lease 
of March month, and put in Jack Frost for bailiff. 
"What be I to do for spring-feed if the weather 
holds, — and my ryelands as bare as the back of my 
hand ? 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY 157 

2nd Peas. That's your luck. Freeze on, say I, 
and may Mary Mother send us snow a yard deep. 
I have ten ton of hay yet to sell — ten ton, man — 
there's my luck : every man for himself, and — 
Why here comes that handsome canting girl, used 
to be about the Princess. 

[Guta enters.'] 

Guta. Well met, fair sirs ! I know you kind and 
loyal, 
And bound by many a favour to my mistress : 
Say, will you bear this letter for her sake 
Unto her aunt, the rich and holy lady 
Who rules the nuns of Kitzingen. 

2nd Peas. If I do, pickle me in a barrel among 
cabbage. 
She told me once, God's curse would overtake me, 
For grinding of the poor : her turn's come now. 
, Guta. Will you, then, help her ? She will pay 
you richly. 
1st Peas. Ay ? How dame ? How ? Where 
will the money come from ? 
Guta. God knows — 
1st Peas. And you do not. 

Guta. Why, but last winter, 

When all your stacks were fired, she lent you 
gold. 



158 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

1st Peas, Well — I'll be generous : as the times 
are hard, 
Say, if I take your letter, will you promise 
To marry me yourself ? 

Guta. Ay, marry you, 

Or anything, if you'll but go to-day : 
At once, mind. [Giving him the Letter. 

1st Peas. Ay, I'll go. Now, you'll remember? 

Guta. Straight to her ladyship at Kitzingen. 
God and his saints deal with you, as you deal 
With us this day. [Exit. 

2nd Peas. What ! art thou fallen in love 

promiscuously ? 

1st Peas. Why, see, now, man ; she has her mis 
tress' ear ; 
And if I marry her, no doubt they'll make me 
Bailiff, or land-steward ; and there's noble pickings 
In that same line. 

2nd Peas. Thou hast bought a pig in a poke 
Her priest will shrive her off from such a bargain. 

1st Peas. Dost think ? Well— I'll not fret my 
self about it. 
See, now, before I start, I must get home 
Those pigs from off the forest ; chop some furze ; 
And then to get my supper, and my horse's : 
And then a man will need to sit awhile, 
And take his snack of brandy for digestion ; 









scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 159 

And then to fettle up my sword and buckler ; 
And then, bid 'em all good bye : and by that time 
'Twill be most nightfall — I'll just go to-morrow. 
Off — here she comes again. \_Exeunt. 

[Isentrudis and Guta enter, with the Children.'] 
Quia. I warned you of it ; I knew she would not 
stay 
An hour, thus treated like a slave — an idiot. 

Isen. Well, 'twas past bearing : so we are thrust 
forth 
To starve again : Are all your jewels gone ? 

Guta. All pawned and eaten — and for her, you 
know, 
She never bore the worth of one day's meal 
About her dress. We can but die — No foe 
Can ban us from that rest. 

Isen. Ay, but these children ! — Well — if it must 
be, 
Here, Guta, pull off this old withered hand 
My wedding-ring ; the man who gave it me 
Should be in heaven — and there he'll know my heart. 
Take it, girl, take it. Where's the princess now ? 
She stopped before a crucifix to pray ; 
But why so long ? 

Guta. Oh ! prayer, to her rapt soul, 

Is like the drunkenness of the autumn bee, 
Who scent- enchanted, on the latest flower, 



160 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Heedless of cold, will linger listless on, 
And freeze in odorous dreams. 

Isen. Ah ! here she comes. 

Guta. Dripping from head to foot with wet and 
mire ! 
How's this ? 

[Elizabeth entering.'] 

Miz. How ? Oh, my fortune rises to full flood : 
I met a friend just now, who told me truths 
Wholesome and stern, of my deceitful heart — 
Would God I had known them earlier ! — and enforced 
Her lesson so, as I shall ne'er forget it 
In body or in mind. 

Isen. What means all this ? 

JEliz. You know the stepping-stones across the 
ford: 
There as I passed, a certain aged crone, 
Whom I had fed, and nursed, year after year, 
Met me mid-stream — thrust past me stoutly on — 
And rolled me headlong in the freezing mire. 
There as I lay and weltered, — " Take that, madam, 
For all your selfish hypocritic pride 
Which thought it such a vast humility 
To wash us poor folk's feet, and use our bodies 
For staves to build withal your Jacob's-ladder. 
What ! you would mount to heaven upon our backs ? 






scene ii] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 161 

The ass has thrown his rider." She crept on — 
I washed my garments in the brook hard by — 
And came here, all the wiser. 

Guta. Miscreant hag ! 

Isen. Alas, you'll freeze. 

Guta. Who could have dreamt the witch 

Could harbour such a spite ? 

Eliz. Nay, who could dream 

She would have guessed my heart so well ? Dull 

boors 
See deeper than we think, and hide within 
Those leathern hulls unfathomable truths, 
Which we amid thought's srlitterinor mazes lose. 
They grind among the iron facts of life, 
And have no time for self-deception. 

Isen. Come — 

Put on my cloak — stand here, behind the wall. 
Oh ! is it come to this ? She'll die of cold. 

Guta. Ungrateful fiend ! 

JEliz. Let be — we must not think on't. 

The scoff was true — I thank her — I thank God — ■ 
This too I needed. I had built myself 
A Babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven, 
Of poor men's praise and prayers, and subtle 

pride 
At mine own alms. 'Tis crumbled into dust ! 
Oh ! I have leant upon an arm of flesh — 

L 



162 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act in. 

And here's its strength ! I'll walk by faith — by 

faith ! 
And rest my weary heart on Christ alone — 
On Him, the all-sufficient ! 
Shame on me ! dreaming thus about myself, 
While you stand shivering here. [To her little Son. 

Art cold, young knight ? 
Knights must not cry — Go slide, and warm thy- 
self. 
Where shall we lodge to-night ? 

Isen. There's no place open, 

But that foul tavern, where we lay last night. 

Elizabeth's Son \clinging to her.] Oh, mother, 
mother ! go not to that house — 
Among those fierce lank men, who laughed, and 

scowled, 
And showed their knives, and sang strange ugly 

songs 
Of you and us. Oh mother ! let us be ! 

Eliz. Hark ! look ! His father's voice ! — his very 
eye- 
Opening so slow and sad, then sinking down 
In luscious rest again ! 

Isen. Bethink you, child — 

Eliz. Oh yes — I'll think — we'll to our tavern 
friends ; 
If they be brutes, 'twas my sin left them so. 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDV. 163 

Guta. "lis but for a night or two : three days will 
bring 
The Abbess hither. 

Isen. And then to Bamberg straight 

For knights and men at arms ! Your uncle's wrath — 

Guta, [Aside."] Hash ! hush ! you'll fret her, if 

you talk of vengeance. 
Isen, Come to our shelter. 

Children, Oh stay here, stay here ! 

Behind these walls. 

Eliz. Ay— stay awhile in peace. The storms are 
still. 
Beneath her eider robe the patient earth 
Watches in silence for the sun : we'll sit 
And gaze up with her at the changeless heaven, 
Until this tyranny be overpast. 
Come. [Aside."] Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 

[They enter a neighbouring Ruin.] 



Scene III. 

A Chamber in the Bishop's Palace at Bamberg. 
Elizabeth and Guta. 

Guta. You have determined ? 
ISliz. Yes — to go with him. 

I have kept my oath too long to break it now. 

l2 



164 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

I will to Marpurg, and there waste away 
In meditation and in pious deeds, 
Till God shall set me free. 

Guta, How if your uncle 

Will have you marry ? Day and night, they say, 
He talks of nothing else. 

JEliz. Never, girl, never ! 

Save me from that at least, oh, God ! 

Guta. He spoke 

Of giving us, your maidens, to his knights 
In carnal wedlock : but I fear him not : 
For God's own word is pledged to keep me pure — 
I am a maid. 

JEliz, And I, alas ! am none ! 

Oh, Guta ! dost thou mock my widowed love ? 
I was a wife — 'tis true : I was not worthy — 
But there was meaning in that first wild fancy ; 
'Twas but the innocent springing of the sap — 
The witless yearning of an homeless heart — 
Do I not know that God has pardoned me ? 
But now — to rouse and turn of mine own will, 
In cool and full foreknowledge, this worn soul 
Again to that, which, when God thrust it on me, 
Bred but one shame of ever-gnawing doubt, 
Were — No, my burning cheeks ! We'll say no more. 
Ah! loved and lost! Though God's chaste grace 
should fail me, 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 165 

My weak idolatry of thee would give 

Strength that should keep me true : with mine own 

hands 
I'd mar this tear-worn face, till petulant man 
Should loathe its scarred and shapeless ugliness. 
Guta. But your poor children ? What becomes 

of them ? 
Eliz. Oh ! she who was not worthy of a husband 
Does not deserve his children. What are they, dar- 
lings, 
But snares to keep me from my heavenly spouse 
By picturing the spouse I must forget ? 
Well — 'tis blank horror. Yet if grief s good for me, 
Let me go down into grief's blackest pit, 
And follow out God's cure by mine own deed. 
Guta. What will your kinsfolk think ? 
Eliz, What will they think ? 

What pleases them. That argument's a staff 
Which breaks whene'er you lean on't. Trust me, 

girl, 
That fear of man sucks out love's soaring ether, 
Baffles faith's heavenward eyes, and drops us down, 
To float, like plumeless birds, on any stream. 
Have I not proved it ? 
There was a time with me, when every eye 
Did scorch like flame : if one looked cold on me, 
I straight accused myself of mortal sins : 



166 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Each fopling was my master : I have lied 

Prom very fear of mine own serving maids. 

That's past, thank God's good grace ! 

Guta. And now you leap 

To the other end of the line. 

JEliz. In self-defence — 

I am too weak to live by half my conscience ; 
I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean ; 
Life is too short for logic ; what I do 
I must do simply ; God alone must judge — 
For God alone shall guide, and God's elect — 
I shrink from earth's chill frosts too much to crawl — 
I have snapped opinion's chains, and now I'll soar 
Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free. 

The Bishop of Bamberg enters. Conrad 
following. 

Bishop, The Devil plagued St. Antony in the 
likeness of a lean friar ! Between mad monks and 
mad women, bedlam's broke loose, I think. 

Con. When the spirit first descended on the elect, 
seculars then, too, said mocking, ' These men are full 
of new wine.' 

Bishop. Seculars, truly ! If I had not in my secula- 
rly picked up a spice of chivalry to the ladies, I should 
long ago have turned out you and your regulars, to 
cant elsewhere. Plague on this gout — I must sit. 



scEira in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 167 

HJliz. Let me settle your cushion, uncle. 

Bishop. So ! girl ! I sent for you from Bo tens tain. 
I had a mind, now, to have kept you there until your 
wits returned, and you would say Yes to some young 
noble suitor. As if I had not had trouble enough 
about your dower ! — If I had had to fight for it, I 
should not have minded : — but these palavers and con- 
ferences have fretted me into the gout : and now you 
would throw all away again, tired with your toy, I 
suppose. What shall I say to the Counts, Yarila, 
and the Cupbearer, and all the noble knights who 
will hazard their lands and lives, in trying to right 
you with that traitor ? I am ashamed to look them 
in the face ! To give all up to the villain ! — To 
pay him for his treason ! 

JEliz. Uncle, I give but what to me is worthless. 
He loves these baubles — let him keep them then : I 
have my dower. 

Bishop. To squander on nuns and beggars, at this 
rogue's bidding ? Why not marry some honest man ? 
You may have your choice of kings and princes ; and 
if you have been happy with one gentleman, Mass! say 
I, why can't you be happy with another ? What 
saith the Scripture ? ' I will that the younger 
widows marry, bear children,' — not run after monks, 
and what not — What's good for the filly, is good for 
the mare, say I. 



168 THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. [act hi, 

Uliz. Uncle, I soar now at a higher pitch — 
To be henceforth the bride of Christ alone. 

Bishop. Ahem ! — a pious notion — in moderation. 
We must be moderate, my child, moderate : I hate 
overdoing anything — especially religion. 

Con. Madam, between your uncle and myself 
This question in your absence were best mooted. 

[Exit Elizabeth. 

Bishop. How, priest ? do you order her about like 
a servant maid ? 

Con. The saints forbid! Now — ere I lose a mo- 
ment — [Kneeling. 
[Aside.'] All things to all men be — and so save some — 
[Aloud.] Forgive, your grace, forgive me, 
If mine un mannered speech in aught have clashed 
With your more tempered and melodious judg- 
ment: 
Your courage will forgive an honest warmth. 
God knows, I serve no private interests. 

Bishop. Your order's, hey ? to wit ? 

Con. My lord, my lord, 

There may be higher aims : but what I said, 
I said but for our Church, and our cloth's honour. 
Ladies' religion, like their love, we know, 
Eequires a gloss of verbal exaltation, 
Lest the sweet souls should understand themselves ; 
And clergymen must talk up to the mark. 



scene in.] THE saint's tragedy. 169 

Bishop. We all know, Gospel preached in the 
mother-tongue 
Sounds too like common sense. 

Con, Or too unlike it : 

You know the world, your grace ; you know the 
sex — 

Bishop. Ahem ! As a spectator. 

Con. Philosophice — 

Just so — You know their rage for shaven crowns — 
How they'll deny their God — but not their priest — 
Flirts — scandal-mongers — in default of both come 
Platonic love — worship of art and genius — 
Idols which make them dream of heaven, as girls 
Dream of their sweethearts, when they sleep on 

bride-cake. 
It saves from worse— we are not all Abelards. 

Bishop. \_Aside.~] Some of us have his tongue, if 
not his face. 

Con. There lies her fancy ; do but balk her of it — 
She'll bolt to cloisters, like a rabbit scared. 
Head her from that — she'll wed some pink-faced 

boy— 
The more low-bred and penniless, the likelier. 
Send her to Marpurg, and her brain will cool. 
Tug at the kite, 'twill only soar the higher : 
Give it but line, my lord, 'twill drop like slate. 
Use but that eagle's glance, whose daring foresight 



170 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

In chapter, camp, and council, wins the wonder 
Of timid trucklers — Scan results and outcomes — 
The scale is heavy in your grace's favour. 

Bishop. Bah ! priest ! What can this Marpurg- 

madness do for me ? 
Con. Leave you the tutelage of all her children. 
Bishop. Thank you — to play the dry nurse to 

three starving brats. 
Con. The minor's guardian guards the minor's 

lands. 
Bishop. Unless they are pitched away in building 

hospitals. 
Con. Instead of fattening in your wisdom's keep- 
ing. 
Bishop. Well, well, — but what gross scandal to 

the family ! 
Con. The family, my lord, would gain a saint. 
Bishop. Ah ! monk, that canonization costs a 

frightful sum. 
Con. These fees, just now, would gladly be re- 
mitted. 
Bishop. These are the last days, faith, when 

Eome's too rich to take ! 
Con. The Saints forbid, my lord, the fisher's see 
Were so o'ercursed by Mammon ! But you grieve, 
I know, to see foul weeds of heresy 
Of late o'errun your diocese. 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 171 

Bishop. Ay, curse them ! 

I've hanged some dozens. 

Con. Worthy of yourself ! 

But yet the faith needs here some mighty triumph — ■ 
Some bright example, whose resplendent blaze 
May tempt that fluttering tribe within the pale 
Of Holy Church again — 

Bishop. To singe their wings ? 

Con. They'll not come near enough. Again — 
there are 
Who dare arraign your prowess, and assert 
A churchman's energies were better spent 
In pulpits, than the tented field. Now mark — 
Mark, what a door is opened. Give but scope 
To this her huge capacity for sainthood — 
Set her, a burning and a shining light 
To all your people — Such a sacrifice, 
Such loan to God of your own flesh and blood, 
Will silence envious tongues, and prove you wise 
For the next world as for this ; will clear your 

name 
From calumnies which argue worldliness ; 
Buy of itself the joys of paradise ; 
And clench your lordship's interest with the pontiff. 

Bishop. Well, well, we'll think on't. 

Con. Sir, I doubt you not. 

[Re-enter Elizabeth.] Uncle, I am determined. 



172 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Bishop. So am I. 

You shall to Marpurg with this holy man. 

JEliz. Ah, there you speak again like mine own 
uncle. 
I'll go — to rest [aside] and die. I only wait 
To see the hones of my beloved laid 
In some fit resting-place. A messenger 
Proclaims them near. Oh God ! 

Bishop. We'll go, my child, 

And meeting them with all due honour, show 
In our own worship, honourable minds. 

[Exit Elizabeth. 

Bishop. A messenger! How far off are they, 
then? 

Serv. Some two days' journey, sir. 

Bishop. Two days' journey, and nought prepared ? 
Here chaplain — Brother Hippodamas ! Chaplain, I 
say ! [Hippodamas enters.] Call the apparitor 
— ride off with him, right and left — Don't wait 
even to take your hawk — Tell my knights to be 
with me, with all their men-at-arms, at noon on 
the second day. Let all be of the best, say — the 
brightest of arms and the newest of garments. 
Mass ! we must show our smartest before these 
crusaders — they'll be full of new fashions, I war- 
rant 'em — the monkeys that have seen the world. 
And here, boy — [To a Page.] Set me a stoup of 



scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 173 

wine in the oriel-room, and another for this good 
monk. 

Con. Pardon me, blessedness — but holy rule — 

Bishop. Oh ! I forgot. — A pail of water and a 

peck of beans for the holy man ! — Order up my 

equerry, and bid my armourer — vestryman, I mean 

— look out my newest robes — Plague on this gout ! 

\JExeunt, following the Bishop. 

Scene IV. 

The Nave of Bamberg Cathedral. A Procession 
entering the West Door, headed by Elizabeth 
and the Bishop, Nobles, Sfe. Religious bearing 
the Coffin which incloses Lewis's Bones. 

1st Lady. See ! the procession comes — the mob 
streams in 
At every door. Hark ! how the steeples thunder 
Their solemn bass above the wailing choir. 

2nd Lady. They will stop at the screen. 

Knight. And there, as I hear, open the coffin. 
Push forward, ladies, to that pillar : thence you will 
see all. 

1st Peas. Oh dear! oh dear ! If any man had 
told me that I should ride forty miles on this errand, 
to see him that went out flesh come home grass, 
like the flower of the field ! 



174 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act hi. 

2nd Peas. We have changed him, but not mended 
him, say I, friend. 

1st Peas. Never we. He knew where a yeoman's 
heart lay ! One that would clap a man on the back 
when his cow died, and behave like a gentleman to 
him — that never met you after a hailstorm without 
lightening himself of a few pocket-burners. 

2nd Peas. Ay, that's your poor-man's plaster : 
that's your right grease for this world's creaking 
wheels. 

1st Peas. Nay, that's your rich man's plaster too, 
and covers the multitude of sins. That's your big 
pike's swimming-bladder, that keeps him atop and 
feeding: that's his calling and election, his oil of 
anointing, his salvum fac regem, his yeoman of the 
wardrobe, who keeps the velvet-piled side of this 
world uppermost, lest his delicate eyes should see 
the warp that holds it. 
*2nd Peas. Who's the warp, then ? 

1st Peas. We, man, the friezes and fustians, that 
rub on till we get frayed through with overwork, 
and then all's abroad, and the nakedness of Babylon 
is discovered, and catch who catch can. 

Old Woman. Pity they only brought his bones 
home! He would have made a lovely corpse, surely. 
He was a proper man ! 

1st Lady. Oh the mincing step he had with him ! 



scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 175 

and the delicate hand on a horse, fingering the reins 
as St. Cicely does the organ-keys ! 

2nd Lady. And for hunting, another Siegfried. 

Knight. If he was Siegfried the gay, she was 
Chriemhild the grim ; and as likely to prove a fire- 
brand as the girl in the ballad. 

1st Lady. Gay, indeed ! His smiles were like 
plum-cake, the sweeter the deeper iced. I never 
saw him speak civil word to woman, but to her. 

2nd Lady. Oh, ye Saints ! There was honey spilt 
on the ground ! If I had such a knight, I'd never 
freeze alone on the chamber- floor, like some that 
never knew when they were well off. I'd never 
elbow him off to crusades with my pruderies. 
' Pluck your apples while they're ripe, 
And pull your flowers in May, !' 
Eh! Mother? 

Old Woman. 6 Till when she grew wizened, and 
he grew cold, 
The balance lay even 'twixt young and old.' 

Monk. Thus Satan bears witness perforce against 
the vanities of Venus ! But what's this babbling ? 
Carolationes in the holy place ? Tace, vetula ! 
taceas, taceto also, and that forthwith. 

Old Woman. Tace in your teeth, and taceas also, 
begging-box ! Who put the halter round his waist 
to keep it off his neck, who ? Get behind your 



176 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

screen, sirrah ! Am I not a burgher's wife ? Am 
I not in the nave ? Am I not on my own ground ? 
Have I brought up eleven children, without nurse, 
wet or dry, to be taced now-a-days by friars in the 
nave ? Help ! good folks ! Where be these rooks 
a going ? 

Knight. The monk has vanished. 

1st Peas. It's ill letting out waters, he finds. 
Who is that old gentleman, sir, holds the Princess 
so tight by the hand ? 

Knight. Her uncle, knave, the Bishop. 

1st Peas. Very right, he : for she's a'most a born 
natural, poor soul. It was a temptation to deal 
with her. 

2nd Peas. Thou didst cheat her shockingly, 
Frank, time o' the famine, on those nine sacks of 
maslin meal. 

Knight. Go tell her of it, rascal, and she'll thank 
you for it, and give you a shilling for helping her to 
a ' cross.' 

Old Woman. Taceing free women in the nave I 
This comes of } r our princesses, that turn the world 
upside down, and demean themselves to hob and nob 
with these black baldicoots ! 

KHz. [In a low voice.~\ I saw all Israel scattered 
on the hills 
As sheep that have no shepherd ! Oh, my people ! 



scene it.] THE saint's tragedy. 177 

Who crowd with greedy eyes round this my jewel, 

Poor ivory, token of his outward beauty — 

Oh ! had ye known his spirit ! — Let his wisdom 

Inform your light hearts with that Saviour's likeness 

For whom he died ! So had ye kept him with you ; 

And from the coming evils gentle Heaven 

Had not withdrawn the righteous : 'tis too late ! 

1st Lady. There now, she smiles ; do you think 
she ever loved him ? 

Knight. Never creature, but mealy-mouthed in- 
quisitors, and shaven singing birds. She looks now 
as glad to be rid of him as any colt broke loose. 

1st Lady. What will she do now, when this farce 
is over? 

2nd Lady. Found an abbey, that's the fashion, 
and elect herself abbess — set up the first week for 
queen-of-all-souls — tyrannize over hysterical girls, 
who are forced to thank her for making them mise- 
rable, and so die a saint. 

Knight. Will you pray to her, my fair queen ? 

2nd Lady. Not I, sir ; the old Saints send me 
lovers enough, and to spare — yourself for one. 

1st Lady. There is the giant-killer slain. But 
see — they have stopped : who is that raising the coffin 
lid? 

2nd Lady. Her familiar spirit, Conrad the heretic- 
catcher. 

M 



178 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act l 

Knight. I do defy him ! Thou art my only gou 
dess ; 
My saint, my idol, my — ahem ! 
; 1st Lady. That well's run dry. 

Look, how she trembles — Now she sinks, all shivering 
Upon the pavement — Why, you'll see nought there 
Flirting behind the pillar — Now she rises — 
And choking down that proud heart, turns to the 

altar — 
Her hand upon the coffin. 

JEliz. I thank thee, gracious Lord, who hast ful- 
filled 
Thine handmaid's mighty longings, with the sight 
Of my beloved's bones, and dost vouchsafe 
This consolation to the desolate, 
i grudge not, Lord, the victim which we gave Thee, 
Both he and I, of his most precious life, 
To aid Thine holy city : though Thou knowest 
His sweetest presence was to this world's joy 
As sunlight to the taper — Oh I hadst Thou spared — 
Had Thy great mercy let us, hand in hand, 
Have toiled through houseless shame, on beggar's 

dole, 
I had been blest : Thou hast him, Lord, Thou hast 

him — 
Do with us what Thou wilt ! If at the price 
Of this one silly hair, in spite of Thee, 



exe iv.] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. 179 

_ could reclothe these wan bones with his manhood, 
And clasp to m y shrunk heart my hero's self — 
I would not give it ! 

I will weep no more — 
Lead on, most holy ; on the sepulchre 
Which stands beside the choir, lay down your 

burden. [To the 'People \ 

Now, gentle hosts, within the close hard by, 
Will we our court, as queen of sorrows, hold — 
The green graves underneath us, and above 
The all-seeing vault, which is the eye of Gcd, 
Judge of the widow and the fatherless. 
There will I plead my children's wrongs, and there, 
If as I think, there boil within your veins 
The deep sure currents of your race's manhood, 
Ye'll nail the orphans' badge upon your shields, 
And own their cause for God's. We name our 

champions — 
Eudolf, the Cupbearer, Leutolf of Erlstetten, 
Hartwig of Erba, and our loved Count Walter, 
Oar knights and vassals, sojourner? among you. 
Follow us. 

[Exit Elizabeth, Sfc; the crowd following, 

♦ 

m 2 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. 



Night. The Church of a Convent. Elizabeth, 
Conrad, Gerard, Monks, an Abbess, Nuns, Sfc, 
in the distance. 

Conrad. What's this new weakness ? At your 
own request 

We come to hear your self-imposed vows 

And now you shrink : where are the high-flown 

fancies 
Which but last week, beside your husband's bier, 
You vapoured forth ? Will you become a jest ? 
You might have counted this tower's cost, before 
You blazoned thus your plans abroad. 

Eliz. Oh, spare me ! 

Con. Spare? Spare yourself; and spare big easy 
words, 
Which prove your knowledge greater than your grace. 

Eliz. Is there no middle path ? No way to keep 
My love for them, and God, at once unstained ? 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 181 

Con. If this were God's world, madam, and not 
the devil's, 
It might be done. 

ISliz. God's world, man ? Why, God made it — 
The faith asserts it God's. 

Con. Potentially — 

As every christened rogue's a child of God, 
Or those old hags, Christ's brides — Think of your 

horn-book — 
The world, the flesh, and the devil — a goodly leash ! 
And yet God made all three. I know the fiend, 
And you should know the world — be sure, be sure, 
The flesh is not a stork among the cranes. 
Our nature, even in Eden gross and vile, 
And by miraculous grace alone upheld, 
Is now itself, and foul, and damned, must die 
Ere we can live ; let halting worldlings, madam, 
Maunder against earth's ties, yet clutch them still. 

Eliz. And yet God gave them to me — 

Con. In the world ; 

Tour babes are yours according to the flesh ; 
How can you hate the flesh, and love its fruit ! 

JSliz. The Scripture bids me love them. 

Con. Truly so, 

While you are forced to keep them ; when God's 

mercy 
Doth from the flesh and world deliverance offer, 



182 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

Letting you bestow them elsewhere, then your love 
May cease with its own usefulness, and the spirit 
Range in free battle lists ; I'll not waste reasons — 
We'll leave you, madam, to the Spirit's voice. 

[Conrad and Gerard withdraw, 
Miz. [Alone.'] Give up his children ? Why, I'd 

not give up 
A lock of hair, a glove his hand had hallowed : 
And they are his gift ; his pledge ; his flesh and 

blood ; 

Tossed off for my ambition ! Ah ! my husband ! 
His ghost's sad eyes upbraid me ! Spare me, spare 

me! 
I'd love thee still, if I dared ; but I fear God. 
And shall I never more see loving eyes 
Look into mine, until my dying day ? 
That's this world's bondage : Christ would have me 

free, 
And 'twere a pious deed to cut myself 
The last, last strand, and fly : but whither ? 

whither ? 
What if I cast away the bird i' the hand 
And found none in the bush ? 'Tis possible — 
What right have I to arrogate Christ's bride-bed ? 
Crushed, widowed, sold to traitors ? I, o'er whom 
His billows and His storms are sweeping ? God's 

not angry : 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 183 

No, not so much as we with buzzing fly ; 

Or in the moment of His wrath's awakening 

We should be — nothing. No — there's worse than 

that— 
What if He but sat still, and let me be ? 
And these deep sorrows, which my vain conceit 
Calls chastenings — meant for me — my ailments' 

cure — 
Were lessons for some angels far away, 
And I the corpus vile for the experiment ? 
The grinding of the sharp and pitiless wheels 
Of some high Providence, which had its mainspring 
Ages ago, and ages hence its end ? 
That were too horrible ! — 
To have torn up all the roses from my garden, 
And planted thorns instead ; to have forged my 

griefs, 
And hugged the griefs I dared not forge ; made 

earth 
A hell, for hope of heaven ; and after all, 
These homeless moors of life toiled through, to wake, 
And find blank nothing ! Is that angel-world 
A gaudy window, which we paint ourselves 
To hide the dead void night beyond ? The present ? 
Why here's the present — like this arched gloom, 
It hems our blind souls in, and roofs them over 
With adamantine vault, whose onlv voice 



184 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

Is our own wild prayers' echo : and our future ? 

It rambles out in endless aisles of mist, 

The further still the darker — Oh, my Saviour ! 

My God ! where art Thou ? That's but a tale about 

Thee, 
That crucifix above — it does but show Thee 
As Thou wast once, but not as Thou art now — 
Thy grief, but not Thy glory : where's that gone ? 
I see it not without me, and within me 
Hell reigns, not Thou ! 

[Dashes herself down on the altar steps. 

Jfr. Jfr Jft Mm ->Vr 

^T ^P ^P TP ^P 

[Monks in the distance chanting.~] 

• Kings' daughters were among thine honourable 

women' — 
JEliz. Kings' daughters ! I am one ! 

<J[> -}f> <n> ■R' 

Monks. ' Hearken, oh daughter, and consider ; 
incline thine ear : 
c Forget also thine own people, and thy father's 
house, 

* So shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty : 

♦ For He is Thy Lord God, and worship thou 

Him.' 
Eliz. [Springing up.~\ I will forget them ! 
They stand between my soul and its allegiance. 



scene I.] THE saint's tragedy. 185 

Thou art my God : what matter if Thou love me ? 
I am Thy bond-slave, purchased with Thy life-blood ; 
I will remember nothing, save that debt. 
Do with me what thou wilt. Alas, my babies ! 
He loves them — they'll not need me. 
Conrad advancing. 

Con. How now, madam ? 

Have these your prayers unto a nobler will 
Won back that wandering heart ? 

Eliz. God's will is spoken : 

The flesh is weak ; the spirit's fixed, and dares, — 
Stay ! confess, sir, 

Did not yourself set on your brothers here 
To sing me to your purpose ? 

Con. As I live 

I meant it not ; yet had I bribed them to it, 
Those words were no less God's. 

Eliz. I know it, I know it ; 

And I'll obey them : come, the victim's ready. 

[Lays her hand on the altar. Gerard, Abbess, 
and Monks descend and advance.'] 

All worldly goods and wealth, which once I loved 
I do now count but dross : and my beloved, 
The children of my womb, I now regard 
As if they were another's, God is witness. 
My pride is to despise myself; my joy 



186 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

All insults, sneers, and slanders of mankind ; 
No creature now I love, but God alone. 
Oh to be clear, clear, clear, of all but Him ! 
Lo, here I strip me of all earthly helps — 

[Tearing off her clothes* 
Naked and barefoot through the world to follow 
My naked Lord — And for my filthy pelf — 

Con. Stop, madam — 

Miz. Why so, sir ? 

Con. Upon thine oath ! 

Thy wealth is God's not thine — How darest re- 
nounce 
The trust He lays on thee ? I do command thee, 
Being, as Aaron, in God's stead, to keep it 
Inviolate, for the Church and thine own needs. 

JEliz. Be it so — I have no part nor lot in't — 
There — I have spoken. 

Abbess. Oh, noble soul! which neither gold, nor 
love, 
Nor scorn can bend ! 

Gerard. And think what pure devotions, 

What holy prayers must they have been, whose 

guerdon 
Is such a flood of grace ! 

Nuns. What love again ! 

What flame of charity, which thus prevails 
In virtue's guest ! • 



scene I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 1S7 

JEliz. Is self-contempt learnt thus ? 

I'll home. 

Abbess. And yet how blest, in these cool shades 
To rest with us, as in a land-locked pool, 
Touched last and lightest by the ruffling breeze. 

JEliz. No ! no ! no ! no ! I will not die in the 
dark : 
I'll breathe the free fresh air until the last, 
Were it but a month — I have such things to do — 
Great schemes — brave schemes — and such a little 

time! 
Though now I am harnessed light as any foot-page. 
Come, come, my ladies. [Exeunt Elizabeth, tyc. 

Ger. Alas, poor lady ! 

Con. Why alas, my son ! 

She longs to die a saint, and here's the way to it. 

Ger. Yet why so harsh ? why with remorseles- 
knife 
Home to the stem prune back each bough and bud 
I thought, the task of education was 
To strengthen, not to crush ; to train and feed 
Each subject toward fulfilment of its nature, 
According to the mind of God, revealed 
In laws, congenital with every kind 
And character of man. 

Con. A heathen dream ! 

Young souls but see the gay and warm outside^ 



188 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

And work but in the shallow upper soil. 

Mine deeper, and the sour and barren rock 

Will stop you soon enough. Who trains God's 
Saints, 

He must transform, not pet — Nature's corrupt 
throughout— 

A gaudy snake, which must be crushed, not tamed, 

A cage of unclean birds, deceitful ever ; 

Born in the likeness of the fiend, which Adam 

Did at the Fall, the Scripture saith, put on. 

Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook, 

To make him sport for thy maidens? Scripture 
saith 

Who is the prince of this world — so forget not. 
Ger. Forgive, if my more weak and carnal judg- 
ment 

Be startled by your doctrines, and doubt trembling 

The path whereon you force yourself and her. 

Con. Startled? Belike — belike — let doctrines be ; 

Thou shalt be judged by thy works ; so see to them, 

And let divines split hairs : dare all thou canst ; 

Be all thou darest ; — that will keep thy brains full. 

Have thy tools ready, God will find thee work — 

Then up, and play the man. Fix well thy pur- 
pose — 

Let one idea, like an orbed sun, 

Rise radiant in thine heaven ; and then round it 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 189 

All doctrines, forms, and disciplines will range 
As dim parhelia, or as needful clouds, 
Needful, but mist-begotten, to be dashed 
Aside, when fresh shall serve thy purpose better. 
Ger. How ? dashed aside ? 

Con. Yea, dashed aside — why not ? 

The truths, my son, are safe in God's abysses — 
While we patch up the doctrines to look like them. 
The best are tarnished mirrors — clumsy bridges, 
Whereon, as on firm soil, the mob may walk 
Across the gulf of doubt, and know no danger. 
We, who see heaven, may see the hell which girds it. 
Blind trust for them. When I came here from 

Eome, 
Among the Alps, all through one frost-bound dawn, 
Waiting with sealed lips the noisy day, 
I walked upon a marble mead of snow — 
An angel's spotless plume, laid there for me : 
Then from the hill-side, in the melting noon, 
Looked down the gorge, and lo ! no bridge, no 

snow — 
But seas of writhing glacier, gashed and scored 
With splintered gulfs, and fathomless crevasses, 
Blue lips of hell, which sucked down roaring rivers 
The fiends who fled the sun. The path of Saints 
Is such ; so shall she look from heaven, and see 
The road which led her thither. Now we'll go, 



190 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

And find some lonely cottage for her lodging ; 

Her shelter now is but a crumbling ruin • 

Eoofed in with pine boughs — discipline more 

healthy 
For soul, than body : She's not ripe for death. 

\_Exeunt. 



Scene II. 

Open space in a Suburb of Marpurg, near Eliza- 
beth's hut. Count Walter and Count Pama 
or Hungary entering. 

C. Pama. I have prepared my nerves for a shock. 

C. Wal. You are wise, for the world's upside down 
here. The last gateway brought us out of Christen- 
dom into the New Jerusalem, the Fifth Monarchy, 
where the Saints possess the earth. Not a beggar 
here but has his pockets full of fair ladies' tokens : 
not a barefooted friar but rules a princess. 

C. Pama. Creeping, I opine, into widows' houses, 
and for a pretence making long prayers. 

C. Wal. Don't quote Scripture here, sir, especially 
in that gross literal way ! The new lights here have 
taught us that Scripture's saying one thing, is a cer- 
tain proof that it means another. Except, by the bye, 
in one text. 



scene n.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 191 

C. Pama. "What's that ? 

C. Wal. ' Ask, and it shall be given you.' 

C. Pama, Ah ! So we are to take nothing lite- 
rally, that they may take literally everything them- 
selves ? 

C. Wal. Humph ! As for your text, see if they do 
not saddle it on us before the day is out, as glibly as 
ever you laid it on them. Here comes the lady's 
tyrant, of whom I told you. 

Conrad advances from the Hut. 

Con. And what may Count Walter's valour want 
here ? 

[Count Walter turns Ms back. 
C. Pama. I come, sir priest, from Andreas, king 
renowned 
Of Hungary, ambassador unworthy 
Unto the Landgravine, his saintly daughter ; 
And fain would be directed to her presence. 
Con. That is as I shall choose. But I'll not 
stop you. 
I do not build with straw. I'll trust my pupils 
To worldlings' honeyed tongues, who make long 

prayers, 
And enter widows' houses for pretence. 
There dwells the lady, who has chosen too long 
The better part, to have it taken from her. 



192 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

Besides that with strange dreams and revelations 
She has of late been edified. 

C. Wal. Bah ! but they will serve your turn — and 
hers. 

Con. What do you mean ? 

C. Wal. When you have cut her off from child and 
friend, and even Isentrudis and Guta, as I hear, are 
thrust out by you to starve, and she sits there, shut up 
like a bear in a hole, to feed on her own substance ; 
if she has not some of these visions to look at, 
how is she, or any other of your poor self-gorged 
prisoners, to help fancying herself the only creature 
on earth ? 

Con. How now? Who more than she, in faith and 
practice, a living member of theCommunion of Saints? 
Did she not lately publicly dispense in charity in a 
single day five hundred marks and more ? Is it not 
my continual labour to keep her from utter penury 
through her extravagance in almsgiving ? For whom 
does she take thought but for the poor, on whom, day 
and night, she spends her strength ? Does she not 
tend them from the cradle, nurse them, kiss their sores , 
feed them, bathe them, with her own hands, clothe 
them, living and dead, with garments, the produce of 
her own labour ? Did she not of late take into her 
own house a paralytic boy, whose loathsomeness had 
driven away every one else ? And now that we have 



scene n.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 193 

removed that charge, has she not with her a leprous 
boy, to whose necessities she ministers hourly, by day 
and night ? What valley but blesses her for some 
school, some chapel, some convent, built by her mu- 
nificence ? Are not the hospices, which she has 
founded in divers towns, the wonder of Germany ? — 
wherein she daily feeds and houses a multitude of 
the infirm poor of Christ ? Is she not followed 
at every step by the blessings of the poor ? Are 
not her hourly intercessions for the souls and 
bodies of all around incessant, world-famous, 
mighty to save? While she lives only for the 
Church of Christ, will you accuse her of selfish 
isolation ? 

C. Wal. I tell you, monk, if she were not healthier 
by God's making than ever she will be by yours, her 
charity would be by this time double-distilled selfish- 
ness ; the mouths she fed, cupboards to store good 
works in ; the backs she warmed, clothes' -horses to 
hang out her wares before God ; her alms not given, 
but fairly paid, a halfpenny for every halfpenny- 
worth of eternal life ; earth her chess-board, and the 
men and women on it, merely pawns for her to play 
a winning game — puppets and horn-books to teach 
her unit holiness— -a private workshop in which to 
work out her own salvation. Out upon such 
charity ! 



194 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Con. God hath appointed that our virtuous deeds 
Each merit their rewards. 

C. Wal. Go to — go to. I have watched you and 
your crew, how you preach up selfish ambition for 
divine charity, and call prurient longings celestial 
love, while you blaspheme that very marriage from 
whose mysteries you borrow all your cant. The 
day will come when every husband and father 
will hunt you down like vermin ; and may I live to 
see it. 

Con. Out on thee, heretic ! 

C. Wal. (Drawing?) Liar ! At last ? 

C. J?ama. In God's name, sir, what if the Princess 
find us ? 

C. Wal. Ay — for her sake. But put that name on 

me again, as you do on every good Catholic who will 

not be your slave and puppet, and if thou goest home 

with ears and nose, there is no hot blood in Germany. 

[They move towards the Cottage. 

Con. [Alone.'] Were I as once I was, I could 
revenge : 
But now all private grudges wane like mist 
In the keen sunlight of my full intent ; 
And this man counts but for some sullen bull 
Who paws and mutters at unheeding pilgrims 
His empty wrath : yet let him bar my path, 
Or stay me but one hour in my life-purpose, 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 195 

And I will fell him as a savage beast, 

God's foe, not mine. Beware thyself, Sir Count ! 

\_Exit. The Counts return from the Cottage. 
C. Pama. Shortly she will return ; here to expect 
her 

Is duty both, and honour. Pardon me — 
Her humours are well known here ? Passers by 
Will guess who 'tis we visit ? 

C. Wal. Very likely. 

C. Pama. Well, travellers see strange things- — and 
do them too. 

Hem ! this turf- smoke affects my breath : we might 
Draw back a space. 

C. Wal. Certie, we were in luck, 

Or both our noses would have been snapped off 
By those two she - dragons ; how their sainthoods 

squealed 

To see a brace of beards peep in ! Poor child ! 
Two sweet companions for her loneliness ! 

C. Pama. But ah ! what lodging 1 'Tis at that 
my heart bleeds ! 
That hut, whose rough and smoke-embrowned spars 
Dip to the cold clay floor on either side ! 
Her seats bare deal ! — her only furniture 
Some earthen crock or two ! Why, sir, a dungeon 
Were scarce more frightful : such a choice must argue 
Aberrant senses, or degenerate blood ! 

n 2 



196 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

C. Wal. What ? Were things foul ? 

C. JPama. I marked not, sir. 

C. Wal. I did. 

You might have eat your dinner off the floor. 

G. Pama. Off any spot, sir, which a princess's foot 
Had hallowed by its touch. 

C. Wal. Most courtierly. 

Keep, keep, those sweet saws for the lady's self. 
\_A$ideJ\ Unless that shock of the nerves shall send 
them flying. 

C. JPama. Yet whence this depth of poverty ? 
thought 
You and her champions had recovered for her 
Her lands and titles. 

C. Wal. Ay ; that coward Henry 

Grave them all back as lightly as he took them : 
Certie, we were four gentle applicants — 
And Rudolph told him some unwelcome truths — 
Would Grod that all of us might hear our sins, 
As Henry heard that day ! 

C. JPama. Then she refused them ? 

C. Wal. t It ill befits,' quoth she, 'my royal I 
blood, 
1 To take extorted gifts ; I tender back 
' By you to him, for this his mortal life, 
t That which he thinks by treason cheaply bought ;| 
1 To which my son shall, in his father's right, 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 197 

6 By God's good will, succeed. For that dread height 
4 May Christ by many woes prepare his youth !' 

C. Pama. Humph ! 

C. Wal. Why here— -no, 't cannot be — 

C. J? am a. What hither comes 

Forth from the hospital, where, as they told us, 
The Princess labours in her holy duties ? 
A particoloured ghost that stalks for penance ? 
Ah ! a good head of hair, if she had kept it 
A thought less lank ; a handsome face too, trust me, 
But worn to fiddle-strings ; well, we'll be knightly — 

[As Elizabeth meets him.'] 
Stop, my fair queen of rags and patches, turn 
Those solemn eyes a moment from your distaff, 
And say, what tidings your magnificence 
Can bring us of the Princess ? 

Eliz. I am she. 

[Count Pama crosses himself and falls on his knees.] 

C. Pama. Oh blessed saints and martyrs ! Open, 
earth ! 
And hide my recreant knighthood in thy gulf! 
Yet, mercy, madam ! for till this strange day 
Who e'er saw spinning wool, like village-maid, 
A royal scion ? 

C. Wal. [Kneeling.] My beloved mistress ! 

Eliz. Ah ! faithful friend ! Eise, gentles, rise, for 
shame ; 



198 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

Nay, blush not, gallant sir. You have seen, ere 

now, 
Kings' daughters do worse things than spinning 

wool, 
Yet never reddened. Speak your errand out. 

C. Pama. I from your father, madam — 

Miz. Oh ! I divine ; 

And grieve that you so far have journeyed, sir, 
Upon a bootless quest. 

(7. Pama. But hear me, madam — 

If you return with me (o'erwhelming honour ! 
For such mean body-guard too precious treasure) 
Your father offers to you half his wealth ; 
And countless hosts, whose swift and loyal blades 
From traitorous grasp shall vindicate your crown. 

JEliz. Wealth ? I have proved it, and have tossed 
it from me : 
I will not stoop again to load with clay. 
War ? I have proved that too : should I turn loose 
On these poor sheep the wolf whose fangs have gored 

me, 
God's bolt would smite me dead. 

C. Pama. Madam, by his gray hairs he doth en- 
treat you. 

Eliz. Alas ! small comfort would they find in me ! 
I am a stricken and most luckless deer, 
Whose bleeding track but draws the hounds of wrath 



scene II.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 199 

Where'er I pause a moment. He has children 
Bred at his side, to nurse him in his age — 
While I am but an alien and a changeling, 
Whom, ere my plastic sense could impress take 
Either of his feature or his voice, he lost. 

C. Pama. Is it so ? Then pardon, madam, but 
your father 
Must by a father's right command — 

Eliz. Command ! Ay, that's the phrase of the 
world : — well — tell him, 
But tell him gently too — that child and father 
Are names, whose earthly sense I have foresworn, 
And know no more : I have a heavenly spouse, 
Whose service doth all other claims annul. 

C. Wal. Ah lady, dearest lady, be but ruled ! 
Your Saviour will be there as near as here. 

Eliz. What ? Thou too, friend ? Dost thou not 
know me better ? 
Wouldst have me leave undone what I begin ? 
[To Count Pama.] My father took the cross, sir : 

so did I : 
As he would die at his post, so will I die : 
He is a warrior : ask him, should I leave 
This my safe fort, and well-proved vantage-ground, 
To roam on this world's flat and fenceless steppes ? 

G. Pama. Pardon me, madam, if my grosser wit 
Fail to conceive your sense. 



200 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

JEliz. It is not needed. 

Be but the mouthpiece to my father, sir ; 
And tell him — for I would not anger him — 
Tell him, I am content — say, happy — tell him 
I prove my kin by prayers for him, and masses 
For her who bore me. We shall meet on high. 
And say, his daughter is a mighty treej 
From whose wide roots a thousand sapling suckers 
Drink half their life ; she dare not snap the threads, 
And let her offshoots wither. So farewell. 
Within the convent there7 as mine own guests, 
You shall be fitly lodged. Come here no more. 

C.Wal.C.Pama. Farewell, sweet saint ! [Exeunt. 

Uliz. May God go with you both. 

No ! I will win for him a nobler name, 
Than captive crescents, piles of turbaned heads, 
Or towns retaken from the Tartar, give. 
In me he shall be greatest ; my report 
Shall through the ages win the quires of heaven 
To love and honour him ; and hinds, who bless 
The poor man's patron saint, shall not forget 
How she was fathered with a worthy sire. [Exit. 



scene m.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 201 

Scene III. 

Night. Interior of Elizabeth's Hut. A leprous 
Boy sleeping on a Mattress. Elizabeth ivatch- 
ing by him. 

JEliz. My shrunk limbs, stiff from many a blow, 
Are crazed with pain. 
A long dim formless fog-bank creeping low, 
Dulls all my brain. 

I remember two young lovers, 

In a golden gleam. 
Across the brooding darkness shrieking hovers 

That fair, foul dream. 

My little children call to me, 

1 Mother ! so soon forgot ?' 
From out dark nooks their yearning faces 
startle me, 

Go, babes ! I know you not ! 

Pray L pray ! or thou'lt go mad. 

# # # # # 

The past's our own : 
No fiend can take that from us ! Ah, poor boy ! 
Had I, like thee, been bred from my black birth-hour 



202 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act rv. 

In filth and shame, counting the soulless months 
Only by some fresh ulcer ! I'll be patient — 
Here's something yet more wretched than myself. 
Sleep thou on still, poor charge — though I'll not 

grudge 
One moment of my sickening toil about thee, 
Best counsellor — dumb preacher, who dost warn me 
How much I have enjoyed, how much have left, 
Which thou hast never known. How am I 

wretched ? 
The happiness thou hast from me, is mine, 
And makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret — 
Could we but crush that ever-craving lust 
For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose our life, 
Our barren unit life, to find again 
A thousand lives in those for whom we die. 
So were we men and women, and should hold 
Our rightful rank in God's great universe, 
Wherein, in heaven and earth, by will or nature, 
Nought lives for self — All, all — from crown to foot- 
stool — 
The Lamb, before the world's foundations slain — 
The angels, ministers to God's elect — 
The sun, who only shines to light a world — 
The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers — 
The fleeting streams who in their ocean-graves 
Flee the decay of stagnant self-content — 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 203 

The oak, ennobled by the shipwright's axe — 
The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower — 
The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms, 
Born, only to be prey for every bird — 
All spend themselves for others : and shall man, 
Earth's rosy blossom — image of his Grod — • 
Whose twofold being is the mystic knot 
Which couples earth and heaven — doubly bound 
As being both worm and angel, to that service 
By which both worms and angels hold their life, 
Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt, 
Refuse, without some hope of further wage 
Which he calls Heaven, to be what God has made 

him ? 
No ! let him show himself the creature's lord 
By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice 
Which they perforce by nature's law must suffer. 
This too I had to learn, (I thank thee, Lord !) 
To lie crushed down in darkness and the pit — 
To lose all heart and hope — and yet to work. 
What lesson could I draw from all my own woes — 
Ingratitude, oppression, widowhood — 
While I oould hug myself in vain conceits 
Of self-contented sainthood — inward raptures — 
Celestial palms — and let ambition's gorge 
Taint heaven, as well as earth ? Is selfishness 
For time, a sin — spun out to eternity 



204 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Celestial prudence ? Shame ! Oh, thrust me forth, 
Forth, Lord, from self, until I toil and die 
No more for Heaven and bliss, but duty, Lord, 
Duty to Thee, although my meed should be 
The hell which I deserve ! [Sleeps. 

# Jfa M. M. M. M. 

W W TP TP W 

Two Women enter. 

1st Woman. What ? snoring still ? 'Tis nearly 
time to wake her 
To do her penance. 

2nd Woman. Wait awhile, for love : 

Indeed, I am almost ashamed to punish 
A bag of skin and bones. 

1st Woman. 'Tis for her good : 

She has had her share of pleasure in this life 
With her gay husband ; she must have her pain. 
We bear it as a thing of course ; we know 
What mortifications are, although I say it 
That should not. 

2nd Woman. Why, since my old tyrant died, 
Fasting I've sought the Lord, like any Anna, 
And never tasted fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, 
And little stronger than water. 

1st Woman. Plague on this watching ! 

What work, to make a saint of a fine lady ! 
See now, if she had been some labourer's daughter, 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 205 

She might have saved herself, for aught he cared ; 
But now — 

2nd Woman. Hush ! here the master comes : 
I hear him. — 

Conkad enters. 

Con. My peace, most holy, wise, and watchful 
wardens ! 
She sleeps? Well, what complaints have you to 

bring 
Since last we met ? How ? blowing up the fire ? 
Cold is the true Saint's element — he thrives 
Like Alpine gentians, where the frost is keenest — 
For there Heaven's nearest — and the ether purest — 
\_Aside.~\ And he most bitter. 

2nd Woman. Ah ! sweet master, 

We are not yet as perfect as yourself. 

Con. But how has she behaved ? 

1st Woman. Just like herself — 

Now ruffing up like any tourney queen ; 
Now weeping in dark corners ; then next minute 
Begging for penance on her knees. 

2nd Woman. One trick's cured ; 

That lust of giving ; Isentrude and Guta, 
The hussies, came here begging but yestreen, 
Yowed they were starving. 

Con. Did she give to them ? 

2nd Woman. She told them that she dared not. 



206 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act it. 

Con. Good — for them, 

I will take measures that they shall not want ; 
But see you tell her not : she must be perfect. 

1st Woman. Indeed, there's not much chance of 
that awhile. 
There's others, might be saints, if they were young, 
And handsome, and had titles to their names, 
If they were helped toward heaven, now — 

Con. Silence, horse-skull ! 

Thank God, that you are allowed to use a finger 
Towards building up His chosen tabernacle. 

2nd Woman. I consider that she blasphemes the 
means of grace. 

Con. Eh ? that's a point, indeed. 

2nd Woman. Why, yesterday, 

Within the church, before a mighty crowd, 
She mocked at all the lovely images, 
And said, ' the money had been better spent 
' On food and clothes, instead of paint and gilding : 
' They were but pictures, whose reality 
1 We ought to bear within us.' 

Con. Awful doctrine ! 

1st Woman. Look at her carelessness, again — the 
distaff 
Or woolcomb in her hands, even on her bed. 
Then, when the work is done, she lets those nuns 
Cheat her of half the price. 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 207 

2nd Woman, The Aldenburgers. 

Con. Well, well, what more misdoings ? 

[Aside.] Pah ! I am sick on't. 
[Aloud."] Go sit, and pray by her until she wakes. 

[The Women retire. Conrad sits down ~by 
the fire.] 

I am dwindling to a peddling chamber-chaplain, 
Who hunts for crabs and ballads in maids' sleeves, 
I, who have shuffled kingdoms. Oh ! 'tis easy 
To beget great deeds ; but in the rearing of them — 
The threading in cold blood each mean detail, 
And furzebrake of half-pertinent circumstance — 
There lies the self-denial. 

Women [In a low voice.] Master ! sir ! look here ! 
JEliz. [rising.] Have mercy, mercy, Lord ! 
Con. What is it, my daughter ? No — She answers 
not — 
Her eyeballs through their sealed lids are bursting, 
And yet she sleeps : her body does but mimic 
The absent soul's enfranchised wanderings 
In the spirit-world. 

Eliz. Oh ! She was but a worldling ! 

And think, good Lord, if that this world is hell, 
What wonder if poor souls whose lot is fixed here, 
Meshed down by custom, wealth, rank, pleasure, 
ignorance, 



208 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Do hellish things in it ? Have mercy, Lord ; 
Even for my sake, and all my woes, have mercy ! 

Con. There ! she is laid again — Some bedlam 
dream. 
So — here I sit ; am I a guardian angel 
Watching by G-od's elect ? or nightly tiger, 
Who waits upon a dainty point of honour 
To clutch his prey, till it shall wake and move ? 
We'll waive that question : there's eternity 
To answer that in. 

How like a marble-carven nun she lies 
Who prays with folded palms upon her tomb, 
Until the resurrection ! Fair and holy ! 
Oh, happy Lewis ! had I been a knight — 
A man at all — What's this ? I must be brutal, 
Or I shall love her : and yet that's no safeguard ; 
I have marked it oft : ay — with that devilish 

triumph 
Which eyes its victim's wri things, still will mingle 
A sympathetic thrill of lust — say, pity. 

JEliz. [Awaking.] I am heard ! She is saved ! 
Where am I ? What, have I overslept myself ? 
Oh, do not beat me ! I will tell you all — 
I have had awful dreams of the other world. 

1st Woman. Ay ! ay ! a fine excuse for lazy 
women, 
Who cry night-mare with lying on their backs. 



scene iil] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 209 

Eliz. I will be heard ! I am a prophetess ! 
God hears me, why not ye ? 

Con. Quench not the spirit : 

If He have spoken, daughter, we must listen. 

Eliz. Methought from out the red and heaving 
earth 
My mother rose, whose broad and queenly limbs 
A fiery arrow did impale, and round 
Pursuing tongues oozed up of nether fire, 
And fastened on her : like a winter-blast 
Among the steeples, then she shrieked aloud, 
' Pray for me, daughter, save me from this torment, 
For thou canst save !' And then she told a tale ; 
It was not true — my mother was not such — 
Oh God ! The pander to a brother's sin ! 

1st Woman. There now ? The truth is out ! I 
told you, sister, 
About that mother — 

Con. Silence, hags ! What then ? 

Eliz. She stretched her arms, and sank. Was it 
a sin 
To love that sinful mother ? There I lay — 
And in the spirit far away I prayed ; 
What words I spoke, I know not, nor how long ; 
Until a still small voice sighed, c Child, thou art 

heard :' 
Then on the pitchy dark a small bright cloud 

o 



210 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Shone out, and swelled, and neared, and grew to 

form, 
Till from it blazed my pardoned mother's face 
"With nameless glory ! Nearer still she pressed, 
And bent her lips to mine — a mighty spasm 
Ean crackling through my limbs, and thousand bells 
Sang in my dizzy ears — And so I woke. 

Con. 'Twas but a dream. 

JEliz. 'Twas more ! 'twas more ! I've tests : 

From youth I have lived in two alternate worlds, 
And night is live like day. This was no goblin ! 
'Twas a true vision, and my mother's soul 
Is freed by my poor prayers from penal fires, 
And waits for me in bliss. 

Con. Well — be it so then. 

Thou seest herein what prize obedience merits. 
Now to press forwards : I require your presence 
Within the square, at noon, to witness there 
The fiery doom — most just and righteous doom — 
Of two convicted and malignant heretics, 
Who at the stake shall expiate their crime, 
And pacify God's wrath against this land. 

JEliz. No ! no ! I will not go ! 

Con. What's here ? Thou wilt not ? 

I'll drive thee there with blows. 

JEliz. Then I will bear them, 

Even as I bore the last, with thankful thoughts 



SCENE in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, 211 

Upon those stripes my Lord endured for me. 
Oh spare them, sir ! poor blindfold sons of men ! 
Xo saint but daily errs, — and must they burn, 
Ah God ! for an opinion ? 

Con. Fool! opinions? 

Who cares for their opinions ? 'Tis rebellion 
Against the system which upholds the world 
For which they die : so, lest the infection spread, 
We must cut off the members, whose disease 
We'd pardon, could they keep it to themselves. 

[Elizabeth weeps. 
Well, I'll not urge it, — Thou hast other work — 
But for thy petulant words do thou this penance : 
I do forbid thee here, to give henceforth 
Food, coin, or clothes, to any living soul. 
Thy thriftless waste doth scandalize the elect, 
And maim thine usefulness : thou dost elude 
My wise restrictions still: 'Tis great, to live 
Poor, among riches ; when thy wealth is spent, 
Want is not merit, but necessity. 

Eliz. Oh, let me give ! 

That only pleasure have I left on earth ! 

Con. And for that very cause thou must forego it, 
And so be perfect : ' she who lives in pleasure 
Is dead, while yet she lives ;' grace brings no merit 
When 'tis the express of our own self-will. 
To shrink from what we practise : do God's work 

o2 



212 .THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

In spite of loathings ; that's the path of saints. 
I have said. [Exit, with the Women. 

Eliz. Well ! I am freezing fast- — I have grown of 
late 
Too weak to nurse my sick ; and now this outlet, 
This one last thawing spring of fellow-feeling, 
Is choked with ice — Come, Lord, and set me free. 
Think me not hasty ! measure not mine age, 
Oh Lord, hy these my four-and-twenty winters. 
I have lived three lives — three lives. 
For fourteen years I was an idiot girl : 
Then I was born again ; and for five years, 
I lived ! I lived ! and then I died once more ; — 
One day when many knights came marching by, 
And stole away — we'll talk no more of that. 
And so these four years since, I have been dead, 
And all my life is hid with Christ in God. 
Nunc igitur dimittas, Domine, servam tuarn. 

Scene IV. 

The Same. Elizabeth lying on Straw in a corner. 
A crowd of Women round her. Conrad entering. 

Con. As I expected — 
A sermon-mongering herd about her death-bed, 
Stifling her with fusty sighs, as flocks of rooks 
Despatch, with pious pecks, a wounded brother. 



scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 213 

Cant, howl, and whimper ! Not an old fool in the 

town 
Who thinks herself religious, but must see 
The last of the show, and mob the deer to death. 
[Advancing .] Hail! holy ones ! How fares your 
charge to-day ? 

Abbess. After the blessed sacrament received, 
As surfeited with those celestial viands, 
And with the blood of life intoxicate, 
She lay entranced : and only stirred at times . 
To eructate sweet edifying doctrine 
Culled from your darling sermons. 

Woman. Heavenly grace 

Imbues her so throughout, that even when pricked 
She feels no pain. 

Con. A miracle, no doubt. 

Heaven's work is ripe, and like some more I know, 
Having begun in the spirit, in the flesh 
She's now made perfect : she hath had warnings, too, 
Of her decease ; and prophesied to me, 
Three weeks ago, when I lay like to die, 
That I should see her in her coffin yet. 

Abbess. 'Tis said, she heard in dreams her Saviour 
call her 
To mansions built for her from everlasting. 

Con. Ay, so she said. 

Abbess. But tell me, in her confession 



214 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act it. 

Was there no holy shame— no self- abhorrence 
For the vile pleasures of her carnal wedlock ? 

Con. She said no word thereon : as for her shrift, 
No Chrisom child could show a chart of thoughts 
More spotless than were hers. 

Nun. Strange, she said nought : 

I had hoped she had grown more pure. 

Con. When, next, I asked her, 

How she would be interred ; ' In the vilest weeds,' 
Quoth she, ' my poor hut holds ; I will not pamper 
When dead, that flesh, which living I despised. 
And for my wealth, see it to the last doit 
Bestowed upon the poor of Christ.' 

2nd Woman. Oh grace ! 

3rd Woman. Oh soul to this world poor, but rich 
toward God ! 

JEMz. \Awaking7\ Hark ! how they cry for bread ! 
Poor souls ! be patient ! 
I have spent all — 

I'll sell myself for a slave — feed them with the price. 
Come, Guta ! Nurse ! We must be up and doing ! 
Alas ! they are gone, and begging ! 
Go ! go ! They'll beat me, if I give you aught : 
I'll pray for you, and so you'll go to Heaven. 
I am a saint — God grants me all I ask. 
But I must love no creature. Why, Christ loved — 
Mary he loved, and Martha, and their brother — 



mm it.] the saint's tragedy. 215 

Three friends ! and I have none ! 

When Lazarus lay dead, He groaned in spirit, 

And wept — like any widow — Jesus wept ! 

I'll weep, weep, weep ! pray for that c gift of tears.' 

They took my friends away, but not my eyes, 

Oh, husband, babes, friends, nurse ! To die alone ! 

Crack, frozen brain ! Melt, icicle within ! 

Women. Alas ! Sweet saint ! By bitter pangs she 
wins 
Her crown of endless glory ! 

Con. But she wins it! 

Stop that vile sobbing ; she's unmanned enough 
Without your maudlin sympathy. 

JSliz. What? weeping? 

Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me — 
Weep for yourselves. 

Women. We do, alas ! we do ! 

What are we without you ? [A pause. 

Woman. Oh listen, listen ! 

What sweet sounds from her fast-closed lips are 

welling, 
As from the caverned shaft, deep miners' songs ? 
Eliz. [in a low voice.'] Through the stifling room 
Floats strange perfume ; 
Through the crumbling thatch 
The angels watch, 
Over the rotting roof- tree. 



216 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

They warble, and flutter, and hover and glide, 
Wafting old sounds to my dreary bedside, 
Snatches of songs which I used to know 
When I slept by my nurse, and the swallows 
Called me at day-dawn from under the eaves. 
Hark to them ! Hark to them now — 
Fluting like woodlarks, tender and low — 
Cool rustling leaves — tinkling waters — 
Sheepbells over the lea — 
In their silver plumes Eden-gales whisper — 
In their hands Eden-lilies — not for me — not for 
me — 

No crown for the poor fond bride ! 
The song told me so, 
Long, long ago, 
How the maid chose the white lily ; 
But the bride she chose 
The red red rose, 
And by its thorn died she. 

Well — in my Father's house are many mansions — 

I have trodden the waste howling ocean-foam, 

Till I stand upon Canaan's shore, 
Where Crusaders from Zion's towers call me home, 

To the saints who are gone before, 

Con. Still on Crusaders ? [Aside. 



scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 217 

Abbess. What was that sweet song, which just 
now, my Princess, 
You murmured to yourself ? 

Eliz. Did you not hear 

A little bird between me and the wall, 
That sang and sang ? 

Abbess. We heard him not, fair saint. 

Eliz. I heard him, and his merry carol revelled 
Through all my brain, and woke my parched throat 
To join his song : then angel melodies 
Burst through the dull dark, and the mad air 

quivered 
Unutterable music. Nay, you heard him. 

Abbess. Nought save yourself. 

Eliz. Slow hours ! Was that the cock-crow ? 

Woman. St. Peter's bird did call. 

Eliz. Then I must up — 

To matins, and to work — No ; my work's over. 
And what is it, what ? 
One drop of oil on the salt seething ocean ! 
Thank God, that one was born at this same hour 
Who did our work for us : we'll talk of Him : 
We shall go mad with thinking of ourselves — 
We'll talk of Him, and of that new-made star, 
Which, as He stooped into the Virgin's side, 
Prom off His finger, like a signet-gem, 
He dropped in the empyrean for a sign. 



218 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

But the first tear He shed at this His birth-hour, 
When He crept weeping forth to see our woe, 
Fled up to Heaven in mist, and hid for ever 
Our sins, our works, and that same new-made star. 

Woman. Poor soul ! she wanders ! 

Con. Wanders, fool ?- her madness 

Is worth a million of your paters, mumbled 
At every station between — 

Miz. Oh ! thank God 

Our eyes are dim ! What should we do, if he, 
The sneering fiend, who laughs at all our toil, 
Should meet us face to face ? 

Con. We'd call him fool. 

Miz. There! There! Fly, Satan, fly ! 'Tis gone! 

Con. The victory's gained at last ! 
The fiend is baffled, and her saintship sure ! 
Oh people blest of heaven ! 

Miz. Oh master, master ! 

You will not let the mob, when I lie dead 
Make me a show — paw over all my limbs — 
Pull out my hair — pluck off my finger-nails — 
Wear scraps of me for charms and amulets, 
As if I were a mummy, or a drug ? 
As they have done to others — I have seen it — 
Nor set me up in ugly naked pictures 
In every church, that cold world-hardened wits 
May gossip o'er my secret tortures ? Promise — 
Swear to me ! I demand it ! 



[scene iv.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 219 

Con. No man lights 

A candle, to be hid beneath a bushel : 
Thy virtues are the Church's dower : endure 
All which the edification of the faithful 
Makes needful to be published. 

Eliz. Oh my God ! 

I had stripped myself of all, but modesty ! 
Dost thou claim yet that victim ? Be it so. 
Now take me home ! I have no more to give thee ! 
So weak — and yet no pain— why, now nought ails 

me ! 
How dim the lights burn ! Here — 
Where are you, children ? 
Alas ! I had forgotten. 

Now I must sleep — for ere the sun shall rise, 
I must begone upon a long, long journey 
To him I love. 

Con. She means her heavenly bridegroom — 

The spouse of souls. 

Eliz. I said, to him I love. 

Let me sleep, sleep. 
You will not need to wake me — so — good night. 

\Eolds herself into an attitude of repose. The 
scene closes, ,1 



ACT V. 

Scene I. a.d. 1235. 

A Convent at Marpurg, Cloisters of the Infirmary, 
Two aged Monks sitting, 

1st Monk, So they will publish to-day the Land- 
gravine's canonization, and translate her to the new 
church prepared for her. Alack, now, that all the 
world should be out sight-seeing and saint-making, 
and we laid up here, like two lame jackdaws in a 
belfry ! 

2nd Monk, Let be, man — let be. We have seen 
sights and saints in our time. And, truly, this 
insolatio suits my old bones better than proces- 
sioning. 

1st Monk, 'Tis pleasant enough in the sun, were 
it not for the flies. Look — there's a lizard. Come 
you here, little run-about ; here's game for you. 

2nd Monk. A tame fool, and a gay one— Mun- 
ditise mundanis. 

1st Monk. Catch him a flat fly — my hand shaketh. 

2nd Monk, If one of your new-lights were here, 



aCENEi.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 221 

now, he'd pluck him for a fiend, as Dominic did the 
live sparrow in chapel. 

1st Monk. There will be precious offerings made 
to-day, of which our house will get its share. 

2nd Monk. Not we ; she always favoured the 
Franciscans most. 

1st Monk. 'Twas but fair — they were her kith 
and kin. She lately put on the habit of their third 
minors. 

2nd Monk. So have half the fine gentlemen and 
ladies in Europe. There's one of your new inven- 
tions, now, for letting grand folks serve God and 
mammon at once, and emptying honest monasteries, 
where men give up all for the Gospel's sake. And 
now these Pharisees of Franciscans will go off with 
full pockets — 

1st Monk, While we poor publicans — 
2nd Monk. Shall not come home all of us justi- 
fied, I think. 

1st Monk. How ? Is there scandal among us ? 
2nd Monk. Ask not — ask not. Even a fool, when 
he holds his peace, is counted wise. Of all sins, 
avoid that same gossiping. 

1st Monk. Nay, tell me now. Are we not like 
David and Jonathan ? Have we not worked 
together, prayed together, journeyed together, and 
been soundly flogged together, more by token, any 



222 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY, [act v. 

time tliis forty years ? And now is news so plenty, 
that thou darest to defraud me of a morsel ? 

2nd Monk. I'll tell thee — but be secret. I knew 
a man hard by the convent (names are dangerous, 
and a bird of the air shall carry the matter,) one 
that hath a mighty eye for a heretic, if thou 
knowest him. 

1st Monk. Who carries his poll screwed on over- 
tight, and sits with his eyes shut in chapel ? 

2nd Monk. The same. Such a one to be in evil 
savour — to have the splendour of the pontifical 
countenance turned from him, as though he had 
taken Christians for Amalekites, and slain the people 
of the Lord. 

1st Monk. How now ? 

2nd Monk. I only speak as I hear : for my sister's 
son is chaplain, for the time being, to a certain 
Archisacerdos, a foreigner, now lodging where thou 
knowest. The young man being hid, after some 
knavery, behind the arras, in come our quidam and 
that prelate. Tha quidam, surly and Saxon — the 
guest, smooth and Italian ; his words softer than 
butter, yet very swords : that this quidam had ' ex- 
ceeded the bounds. of his commission — -launched out 
into wanton and lawless cruelty — burnt noble ladies 
unheard, of whose innocence the Holy See had 
proof — defiled the Catholic faith in the eyes of the 



scene i.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 223 

weaker sort — and alienated the minds of many nobles 
and gentlemen' — and finally, that he who thinketh 
he standeth, were wise to take heed lest he fall. 

1st Monk. And what said Conrad ? 

2nd Monk. Out upon a man that cannot keep his 
lips ! Who spake of Conrad ? That quidam, how- 
ever, answered nought, but — how, ' to his own 
master he stood or fell ' — how c he laboured not for 
the Pope but for the Papacy ;' and so forth. 

1st Monk. Here is awful doctrine ! Behold the 
fruit of your reformers ! This comes of their realr 
ized ideas, and centralizations, and organizations, 
till a monk cannot wink in chapel without being 
blinded with the lantern, or fall sick on Fridays, for 
fear of the rod. Have I not testified ? Have I not 
foretold ? 

2nd Monk. Thou hast indeed. Thou knowest 
that the old paths are best, and livest in most pious 
abhorrence of all amendment. 

1st Monk. Do you hear that shout? There is 
the procession returning from the tomb. 

2nd Monk. Hark to the tramp of the horse-hoofs ! 
A gallant show, I'll warrant ! 

1st Monk. Time was, now, when we were young 
bloods together in the world, such a roll as that 
would have set our hearts beating against their 
cashes ! 



224 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act y. 

2nd Monk. Ay, ay. We have seen sport in our 
day ; we have paraded and curvetted, eh ? and 
heard scabbards jingle ? We know the sly touch 
of the heel, that set him on his hind legs before the 
right window. Vanitas vanitatum — omnia vanitas ! 
Here comes Gerard, Conrad's chaplain, with our 
dinner. 

[Gerard enters across the Court. ~\ 

1st Monk. A kindly youth and a godly,, but — 
reformation-bitten, like the rest. 

2nd Monk. Never care. Boys must take the 
reigning madness in religion, as they do the measles 
— once for all. 

1st Monk. Once too often for him. His face is 
too, too like Abel's in the chapel-window. Ut sis 
vitalis metuo, puer ! 

Ger. Hail, fathers. I have asked permission of 
the prior to minister your refection, and bring you 
thereby the first news of the pageant. 

1st Monk. Blessings on thee for a good boy. 
Give us the trenchers, and open thy mouth while 
we open ours. 

2nd Monk. Most splendid all, no doubt ? 

Ger. A garden, sir, 

Wherein all rainbowed flowers were heaped together ; 
A sea of silk and gold, of blazoned banners, 



scene I.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 225 

And chargers housed ; such glorious press, be sure, 
Thuringen-land ne'er saw. 

2nd Monk. Just hear the boy ! 

Who rode beside the bier? 

Ger. Frederic the Kaiser, 

Henry the Landgrave, brother of her husband ; 
The Princesses, too, Agnes, and her mother ; 
And every noble name, sir, at whose war-cry 
The Saxon heart leaps up ; with them the prelates 
Of Treves, of Coin, and Maintz — why name them 

all? 
When all were there, whom this our father-land 
Counts worthy of its love. 

1st Monk. 'Twas but her right. 

Who spoke the oration ? 

Ger. Who but Conrad. 

2nd Monk. Well— 

That's honour to our house. 

1st Monk. Come, tell us all. 

2nd Monk. In order, boy : thou hast a ready 
tongue. 

Ger. He raised from off her face the pall, and 
1 Lo ?' 
He cried, ' That saintly flesh which ye of late 
With sacrilegious hands, ere yet entombed, 
Had in your superstitious selfishness 
Almost torn piecemeal. Fools ! Gross-hearted fools ! 

P 



226 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act v. 

These limbs are God's, not yours : in life for you 
They spent themselves ; now till the judgment-day 
By virtue of the Spirit embalmed they lie — 
Touch them who dare. No ! Would you find your 

saint, 
Look up, not down, where even now she prays 
Beyond that blazing orb for you and me. 
Why hither bring her corpse ? Why hide her clay 
In jewelled ark beneath God's mercy- seat — 
A speck of dust among these boundless aisles, 
Uprushing pillars, star-bespangled roofs, 
Whose colours mimic Heaven's unmeasured blue, 
Save to remind you, how she is not here, 
But risen with Him that rose, and by his blaze 
Absorbed, lives in the God for whom she died ? 
Know her no more according to the flesh ; 
Or only so, to brand upon your thoughts 
How she was once a woman — flesh and blood, 
Like you — yet how unlike ! Hark while I tell ye.' 
2nd Monk. How liked the mob all this ? They 

hate him sore. 
Ger. Half awed, half sullen, till his golden lips 
Entranced all ears with tales so sad and strange, 
They seemed one life-long miracle : bliss and woe, 
Honour and shame — her daring — Heaven's stern 

guidance, 
Did each the other so outblaze. 



scene l] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 227 

1st Monk. Great signs 

Did wait on her from youth. 

2nd Monk. There went a tale 

Of one, a Zingar wizard, who, on her birthnight, 
He here in Eisenach, she in Presburg lying, 
Declared her natal moment, and the glory 
Which should befal her by the grace of God. 

Ger. He spoke of that, and many a wonder more, 
Melting all hearts to worship — how a robe 
Which from her shoulders, at a royal feast, 
To some importunate as alms she sent, 
By miracle within her bower was hung again : 
And how on her own couch the Incarnate Son 
In likeness of a leprous serf, she laid : 
And many a wondrous tale, till now unheard ; 
Which, from her handmaid's oath and attestation, 
Siegfried of Maintz to far Perugia sent, 
And sainted Umbria's labyrinthine hills. 
Even to the holy Council, where the Patriarchs 
Of Antioch and Jerusalem, and with them 
A host of prelates, magnates, knights and nobles, 
Decreed and canonized her sainthood's palm. 

1st Monk. Mass, they could do no less. 

Ger. So thought my master 

For, c Thus,' quoth he, ' the primates of the Faith 
Have, in the bull which late was read to you, 
Most wisely ratified the will of God 

p2 



228 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act v. 

Revealed in her life's splendour : for the next 

count — 
These miracles wherewith since death she shines — 
Since ye must have your signs, ere ye believe, 
And since without such tests the Roman Father 
Allows no saints to take their seats in heaven, 
Why, there ye have them ; not a friar, I find, 
Or old wife in the streets, but counts some dozens 
Of blind, deaf, halt, dumb, palsied, and hysterical, 
Made whole at this her tomb — A corpse or two 
Was raised, they say, last week : Will that content 

you? 
Will that content her ? Earthworms ! Would ye 

please the dead, 
Bring sinful souls, not limping carcases 
To test her power on ; which of you hath done that? 
Has any glutton learnt from her to fast ? 
Or oily burgher dealt away his pelf ? 
Has any painted Jezebel in sackcloth 
Repented of her vanities ? Your patron ? 
Think ye, that spell and flame of intercession, 
Melting God's iron will, which for your sakes 
She purchased by long agonies, was but meant 
To save your doctors' bills ? If any soul 
Hath been by her made holier, let it speak !' 

2nd Monk. Well spoken, Legate ! Easier asked 

than answered. 



scene I.] THE saint's tragedy. 229 

Ger. Not so, for on the moment, from the crowd 
Sprang out a gay and gallant gentleman 
Well known in fight and tourney, and aloud 
With sobs and blushes told, how he long time 
Had wallowed deep in mire of fleshly sin, 
And loathed, and fell again, and loathed in vain ; 
Until the story of her saintly grace 
Drew him unto her tomb ; there long prostrate 
With bitter cries he sought her, till at length 
The image of her perfect loveliness 
Transfigured all his soul, and from his knees 
He rose new-born, and, since that blessed day, 
In chastest chivalry, a spotless knight, 
Maintains the widow's and the orphan's cause. 

1st MonJc.Well done ! and what said Conrad ? 

Ger. Oh, he smiled, 

As who should say, ' 'Twas but the news I looked 

for,' 
Then, pointing to the banners borne on high, 
Where the sad story of her nightly penance 
Was all too truly painted — ' Look !' he cried, 
* 'Twas thus she schooled her soft and shuddering 

flesh 
To dare and suffer for you ! — Thus she won 
The ear of G-od for you!' Gay ladies sighed, 
And stern knights wept, and growled, and wept 
again. 



230 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act y. 

And then he told her alms, her mighty labours, 

Among God's poor, the schools wherein she taught ; 

The babes she brought to the font, the hospitals 

Founded from her own penury, where she tended 

The leper and the fever-stricken serf 

With meanest office ; how a dying slave 

"Who craved in vain for milk she stooped to feed 

Prom her own bosom At that crowning tale 

Of utter love, the dullest hearts caught fire 
Contagious from his lips — the Spirit's breath 
Low to the earth, like dewy -laden corn, 
Bowed the ripe harvest of that mighty host ; 
Knees bent, all heads were bare ; rich dames aloud 
Bewailed their cushioned sloth ; old foes held out 
Long parted hands ; low murmured vows and prayers 
Gained courage, till a shout proclaimed her saint, 
And jubilant thunders shook the ringing air, 
Till birds dropped stunned, and passing clouds bewept 
With crystal drops, like sympathizing angels, 
Those wasted limbs, whose sainted ivory round 
Shed Eden-odours : from his royal head 
The Kaiser took his crown, and on the bier 
Laid the rich offering ; dames tore off their jewels — 
Proud nobles heaped with gold and gems her corse 

Whom living they despised : I saw no more 

Mine eyes were blinded with a radiant mist — 
And I ran here to tell you. 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. 231 

1st Monk. Oh, fair olive, 

Eich with the Spirit's unction, how thy boughs 
Rain balsams on us ! 

2nd Monk. Thou didst sell thine all — 
And bought'st the priceless pearl ! 

1st Monk. Thou holocaust of Abel 

By Cain in vain despised ! 

2nd Monk. Thou angels' playmate 
Of yore, but now their judge ! 

Ger. Thou alabaster, 

Broken at last, to fill the house of God 
With rich celestial fragrance ! 

[SfG.y Sfc., ad libitum. 



Scene II, 

A Boom in a Convent at Mayence. Conrad alone. 

Con. The work is done ! Diva Elizabeth ! 
And I have trained one saint before I die ! 
Yet now 'tis done, is't well done ? On my lips 
Is triumph : but what echo in my heart ? 
Alas ! the inner voice is sad and dull, 
Even at the crown and shout of victory. 
Oh ! I had hugged this purpose to my heart, 
Cast by for it all ruth, all pride, all scruples ; 
Yet now its face, that seemed as pure as crystal, 



232 THE SAINT'S TKAGEDY. [act y. 

Shows fleshly, foul, and stained with tears and gore ! 
We make, and moil, like children in their gardens, 
And spoil with dabbled hands, our flowers i' the 

planting. 
And yet a saint is made ! Alas, those children ! 
Was there no gentler way ? I know not any : 
I plucked the gay moth from the spider's web ; 
What if my hasty hand have smirched its feathers ? 
Sure, if the whole be good, each several part 
May for its private blots forgiveness gain, 
As in man's tabernacle, vile elements 
Unite to one fair stature. Who'll gainsay it ? 
The whole is good ; another saint in heaven ; 
Another bride within the Bridegroom's arms ; 
And she will pray for me ! — And yet what matter ? 
Better that I, this paltry sinful unit, 
Fall fighting, crushed into the nether pit, 
If my dead corpse may bridge the path to Heaven, 
And damn itself, to save the souls of others. 
A noble ruin : yet small comfort in it ; 

In it, or in aught else 

A blank dim cloud before mine inward sense 

Dulls all the past : she spoke of such a cloud 

I struck her for't, and said it was a fiend 

She's happy now, before the throne of God 



I should be merry ; yet my heart's floor sinks 
As on a fast day ; sure some evil bodes. 



scene ii.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 233 

Would it were here, that I might see its eyes ! 

The future only is unbearable ! 

We quail before the rising thunderstorm 

Which thrills and whispers in the stifled air, 

Yet blench not, when it falls. Would it were here ! 

[JPause,] 
I fain would sleep, yet dare not : all the air 
Throngs thick upon me with the pregnant terror 
Of life unseen, yet near. I dare not meet them, 

As if I sleep I shall do 1 again ? 

What matter what I feel, or like, or fear ? 
Come what God sends. Within there — Brother 
Gerard ! 

[Gerard enters."] 

Watch here an hour, and pray. — The fiends are 

busy. 
So — -hold my hand. \_Crosses himself. 

Come on — I fear you not. [Sleeps. 

[Gerard sings."] 

Qui fugiens mundi gravia, 
Contempsit carnis bravia, 
Cupidinisque somnia, 
Lucratur, perdens, omnia. 

Hunc gestant ulnis angeli, 
Ne lapis officiat pedi ; 



234 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act v. 

Ne luce timor occupet, 
Aut nocte pestis incubet. 

Huic cceli lilia germinant ; 

Arrisus sponsi permanent ; 

Ac nomen in fidelibus 

Quam liliorum melius. [Sleeps. 



[Conrad aioaking.~] Stay ! Spirits, stay ! Art 

thou a hell-born phantasm, 
Or word too true, sent by the mother of God ? 
Oh tell me, queen of Heaven ! 
Oh God ! if she, the city of the Lord, 
Who is the heart, the brain, the ruling soul 
Of half the earth ; wherein all kingdoms, laws, 
Authority, and faith do culminate, 
And draw from her their sanction and their use ; 
The lighthouse founded on the rock of ages, 
Whereto the Gentiles look, and still are healed ; 
The tree whose rootlets drink of every river, 
Whose boughs drop Eden fruits on seaward isles ; 
Christ's seamless coat, rainbowed with gems and 

hues 
Of all degrees and uses, rend, and tarnish, 
And crumble into dust ! 
Vanitas vanitatum, omnia van it as ! 
Oh ! to have prayed, and toiled — and lied — for this ! 



scene ii,] THE saint's tragedy. 235 

For this to have crushed out the heart of youth, 
And sat by calm, while living bodies burned ! 
How ? Gerard ; sleeping ? 
Couldst thou not watch with me one hour, my son? 

Ger. [ciicaking.~\ How ! have I slept ? Shame on 
my vaporous brain ! 
And yet there crept along my hand from thine 
A leaden languor, and the drowsy air 
Teemed thick with humming wings — I slept per- 
force. 
Forgive me (while for breach of holy rule 
Due penance shall seem honour) my neglect. 

Con. I should have beat thee for't, an hour agone — 
Now I judge no man ; What are rules and methods ? 
I have seen things which make my brain-sphere reel : 
My magic teraph-bust, full packed, and labelled, 
With saws, ideas, dogmas, ends, and theories, 
Lies shivered into dust : Pah ! we do squint 
Each through his loop-hole, and then dream, broad 

heaven 
Is but the patch we see. But let none know ; 
Be silent, Gerard, wary. 

Ger. Nay — I know nought 

Of that which moves thee : though I fain would ask — ■ 

Con. I saw our mighty Mother, Holy Church, 
Sit like a painted harlot ; round her limbs 
An oily snake had coiled, who smiled, and smiled, 



236 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. _ [act y. 

And lisped the name of Jesus — I'll not tell thee : 

I have seen more than man can see, and live : 

God, when He grants the tree of knowledge, bans 

The luckless seer from off the tree of life, 

Lest he become as gods, and burst with pride ; 

Or sick at sight of his own nothingness, 

Lie down, and be a fiend : my time is near. 

Well — I have neither child, nor kin, nor Mend, 

Save thee, my son; I shall go lightly forth. 

Thou knowest, we start for Marpurg on the morrow? 

Thou wilt go with me ? 

Ger. Ay, to death, my master ; 

Yet boorish heretics, with grounded throats, 
Mutter like sullen bulls ; the Count of Saym, 
And many gentlemen, they say, have sworn 
A fearful oath : there's danger in the wind. 

Con. They have their quarrel ; I was keen and 

hasty : 
Gladio qui utitur, peribit gladio. 
When Heaven is strong, then Hell is strong : 

Thou fear'st not ? 
Ger. No ! though their name were legion ! 'Tis 

for thee 
Alone I quake, lest by some pious boldness 
Thou quench the light of Israel. 

Con. Light ? my son ! 

There shall no light be quenched, when I lie dark. 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. 237 

Our path trends outward : we will forth to-morrow : 
Now let's to chapel ; matin hells are ringing. 

[Exeunt. 

SCEtfE III. 

A road between 'Eisenach and 31arpurg. Peasants 
waiting by the roadside. Walter or Varila, 
the Couist or Saym, and other Gentlemen, en- 
tering on horseback. 

Gent. Talk not of honour — Hell's a flame within 
me : 
Foul water quenches fire as well as fair ; 
If I do meet him, he shall die the death, 
Come fair, come foul : I tell you, there are wrongs 
The fumbling piecemeal law can never touch, 
Which bring of themselves to the injured, right 

divine, 
Straight from the fount of right, above all parch- 
ments, 
To be their own avengers : dainty lawyers, 
If one shall slay the adulterer in the act, 
Dare not condemn him : girls have stabbed their 

tyrants, 
And common sense has crowned them saints ; yet 

what — 
What were their wrongs to mine ? All gone ! All 
gone ! 



238 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act v. 

My noble boys, whom I had trained, poor fools, 
To win their spurs, and ride afield with me ! 
I could have spared them — but my wife ! my lady ! 
Those dainty limbs, which knew no eyes but mine — 
Before that ruffian mob — Too much for man ! 
Too much, stern Heaven ! — Those eyes, those hands, 
Those tender feet, where I have lain and wor- 
shipped — 
Food for fierce flames ! And on the self-same day — 
The day that they were seized — unheard — un- 
argued — 
No witness, but one vile convicted thief — 
The dog is dead and buried : Well done, henchmen ! 
They are not buried ! Pah ! their ashes flit 
About the common air ; we pass them — breathe 

them! 
The self- same day ! If I had had one look ! 
One word — one single tiny spark of word, 
Such as two swallows change upon the wing ! 
She was no heretic : she knelt for ever 
Before the blessed rood, and prayed for me. 
Ar't sure he conies this road ? 

0. Saym. My messenger 

Saw him start forth, and watched him past the 

crossways : 
An hour will bring him here. 

C. Wah How ? ambuscading ? 



scene in.] THE saint's tragedy. 239 

I'll not sit by, while helpless priests are butchered ; 
Shame, gentles ! 

C. Saym. On my word, I knew not on't 

Until this hour : my quarrel's not so sharp, 
But I may let him pass : my name is righted 
Before the Emperor, from all his slanders ; 
And what's revenge to me ? 

Gent. Ay, ay — forgive and forget — 
The vermin's trapped — and we'll be gentle-handed, 
And lift him out, and bid his master speed him, 
Him and his firebrands. He shall never pass me. 
C. TVal. I will not see it ; I'm old, and sick of 
blood. 
She loved him, while she lived ; and charged me 

once, 
As her sworn liegeman, not to harm the knave. 
I'll home ; yet, knights, if aught untoward happen, 
And you should need a shelter, come to me : 
My walls are strong. Home, knaves! we'll seek 

our wives, 
And beat our swords to ploughshares — when folks 
let us. \_Exeunt Count Walter and Suite. 
C. Saym. He's gone, brave heart ! But — sir, you 
will not dare ? 
The Pope's own legate — think — there's danger in't. 
Gent. Look, how athwart yon sullen sleeping 
flats 



240 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act y. 

That frowning thunder-cloud sails pregnant hither; — 
And black against its sheeted gray, one bird 
Flags fearful onward — "lis his cursed soul ! 
Now thou shalt quake, raven ! — The self-same day ! — 
He cannot 'scape ! The storm is close upon him ? 
There ! There ! the wreathing spouts have swallowed 

him ! 
He's gone ! and see, the keen blue spark leaps out 
From crag to crag, and every vaporous pillar 
Shouts forth his death-doom ! 'Tis a sign, a sign ! 
\_A heretic preacher mounts a stone. — Peasants 
gather round him.'] 
These are the starved unlettered hinds, forsooth, 
He hunted down like vermin — for a doctrine. 
They have their rights, their wrongs ; their lawless 

laws, 
Their witless arguings, which unconscious reason 
Informs to just conclusions. We will hear them. 

Preacher. My brethren, I have a message to you : 
therefore hearken with all your ears — for now is the 
day of salvation. It is written, that the children of 
this world are in their generation wiser than the 
children of light — and truly: for the children of this 
world, when they are troubled with vermin, catch 
them — and hear no more of them. But you, the 
children of light, the elect saints, the poor of this 
world rich in faith, let the vermin eat your lives 



scene in.] THE SAINT'S TKAGEDF. 241 

out, and then fall down and worship them after- 
wards. You are all besotted — hag-ridden — drunkards 
sitting in the stocks, and bowing down to the said 
stocks, and making a god thereof. Of part, said the 
prophet, ye make a god, and part serveth to roast — 
to roast the flesh of your sons and of your daugh- 
ters ; and then ye cry, ' Aha, I am warm, I have 
seen the fire ;' and a special fire ye have seen ! The 
ashes of your wives and of your brothers cleave to 
your clothes. — Cast them up to Heaven, cry, aloud, 
and quit yourselves like men ! 

Gent. He speaks God's truth ! We are Heaven's 
justicers ! 
Our woes anoint us kin^s ! Peace — Hark a^ain ! — 

Preacher. Therefore, as I said before — in the 
next place — It is written, that there shall be a two- 
edged-sword in the hand of the saints. But the 
saints have but two swords — Was there a sword or 
shield found among ten thousand in Israel ? Then 
let Israel use his fists, say I the preacher ! For this 
man hath shed blood, and by man shall his blood be 
shed. Now behold an argument. — This man hath 
shed blood, even Conrad ; ergo, as he saith himself, 
ye, if ye are men, shall shed his blood. Doth he 
not himself say ergo ? Hath he not said ergo to 
the poor saints, to your sons and your daughters, 
whom he hath burned in the fire to Moloch ? ' Er^o, 

Q 



242 THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY. [act t. 

thou art a heretic' — 6 Ergo, thou shaltburn.' Is he 
not therefore convicted out of his own mouth ? 
Arise therefore, be valiant — for this day he is deli- 
vered into your hand ! 

[Chanting heard in the distance?^ 
Peasant. Hush ! here the psalm-singers come ! 

[Conrad enters on a mule, chanting the psalter, 
Gerard following^ 

Con. My peace with you, my children ! 
1st Voice. Psalm us no psalms ; bless us no devil's 
blessings : 
Your balms will break our heads. 

\_A murmur rises. 
2nd Voice. You are welcome, sir ; we are a-waiting 

for you. 
3rd Voice. Has he been shriven to-day ? 
4dh Voice. Where is your ergo, Master Conrad ? 
Faugh ! 
How both the fellows smell of smoke ! 

bth Voice. A strange leech he, to suck, and suck, 
and suck, 
And look no fatter for't ! 

Old Woman. Give me back my sons ! 
Old Man. Give me back the light of mine eyes, 
Mine only daughter ! 



scene in.] THE saint's tragedy. 243 

My only one ! He hurled her over the cliffs ! 
Avenge me, lads, you are young ! 

4dh Voice. We will, we will : why smit'st him not, 

thou with the pole-axe ? 
3rd Voice. Nay, now, the first blow costs most, and 
heals last : 
Besides, the dog's a priest, at worst. 

C. Saym. Mass ! How the shaveling rascal stands 
at bay ! 
There's not a rogue of them dare face his eye ! 
True Domini canis ! 'Ware the bloodhound's teeth, 
curs ! 
Preacher. What ! Are ye afraid ? The hunts- 
man's here at last 
Without his whip ! Down with him, craven hounds ! 
I'll help ye to't. [Springs from the stone. 

Gent. Ay, down with him ! Mass, have these 
yelping boors 
More heart than I ? \_Spurs his horse forward. 

Mob. A knight ! a champion ! 
Voice. He's not mortal man ! 

See how his eyes shine ! 'Tis the archangel ! 
St. Michael come to the rescue ! Ho ! St. Michael! 

\I£e lunges at Conrad. Gerard turns the lance 
aside, and throws his arms round Conrad.] 

G-er, My master ! my master ! The chariot of 

Q 2 



244 THE SAINT'S TEAGEDY. [act v. 

Israel and the horses thereof ! 
Oh call down fire from Heaven ! 

\_A Feasant strikes down Gerard. Conrad, over 
the body."] 

Alas ! my son ! This blood shall cry for vengeance 
Before the throne of God ! 

Gent. And cry in vain ! 

Follow thy minion ! Join Folquet in hell ! 

[Bears Conrad down on his lance-point. 
Con. I am the vicar of the vicar of Christ : 
Who touches me, doth touch the Son of God. 

[The Mob close over him.'] 
Oh God ! A martyr's crown ! Elizabeth ! [Dies. 






4? 

?T- ~ ~ " " 

4? 



NOTES TO ACT I. 



The references, unless it be otherwise specified, are 
to the Eight Books concerning Saint Elizabeth, 
by Dietrich the Thuringian ; in Basnage's 
Canisius, Vol. IV., p. 113, (Antwerp, 1725). 

Page 33. Cf. Lib. I. § 3. Dietrich is eloquent about her 
youthful inclination for holy places, and church doors, even 
when shut, and gives many real proofs of her * sanctse indolis/ 
from the very cradle. 

P. 34. ' St. John's sworn maid.' Cf. Lib. I. § 4. * She 
chose by lot for her patron, St. John the protector of vir- 
ginity.' 

P. 35. ' Fit for my princess.' Cf. Lib. I . § 2. 'He sent 
with his daughter vessels of gold, silver baths, jewels, pillows 
all of silk. No such things, so precious or so many, were 
ever seen in Thuringen land.' 

Ibid. 'Most friendless.' Cf. Lib. I. §§ 5, 6. 'The 
courtiers used bitterly to insult her, &c. Her mother and 
sister-in-law, given to worldly pomp, differed from her ex- 
ceedingly ; ' and much more concerning ' the persecutions 
which she endured patiently in youth.' 

P. 36. 'In one cradle.' Cf. Lib. I. § 2. 'The princess 
was laid in the cradle of her boy-spouse,' and, says another, 
' the infants embraced with smiles, from whence the by- 
standers drew a joyful omen of their future happiness.' 






246 NOTES. 

P. 36. ' If thou love him.' Cf. Lib. I. § 6. ' The Lord 
by His hidden inspiration, so inclined towards her the heart of 
the prince, that in the solitude of secret and mutual love he 
used to speak sweetly to her heart, with kindness and con- 
solation ; and was always wont, on returning home, to honour 
her with presents, and soothe her with embraces.' It was 
their custom, says Dietrich, to the last to call each other in 
common conversation, * Brother,' and * Sister.' 

P. 37. 'To his charge.' Cf. Lib. I. § 7. 'Walter of 
Varila, a good man, who, having been sent by the prince's 
father into Hungary, had brought the blessed Elizabeth into 
Thuringen land.' 

P. 39. 'The blind archer, Love.' For information about 
the pagan orientalism of the Troubadours, the blasphemous 
bombast by which they provoked their persecution in Pro- 
vence, and their influence on the courts of Europe, see Sis- 
MONDi, Lit. Southern Europe, Cap. III. — VI. 

P. 42. ' Stadings.' The Stadings, according to Fleury, 
in a.d. 1233, were certain unruly fen-men, who refused to 
pay tithes, committed great cruelties on religious of both 
sexes, worshipped, or were said to worship, a black cat, &c, 
considered the devil as a very ill-used personage, and the right- 
ful lord of themselves and the world, and were of the most 
profligate morals. An impartial and philosophic investigation 
of this and other early continental heresies, is much wanted. 

P. 56. 'All gold. Cf. Lib. I. § 7, for Walter's inter- 
ference and Lewis's answer, which I have paraphrased. 

P. 59. 'Is crowned with thorns.' Cf. Lib. I. § 5, for 
this anecdote and her defence, which I have in like manner 
paraphrased. 



NOTES. 247 

P. 59. ' Their pardon.' Cf. Lib. I. § 3, for this quaint 
method of self-humiliation. 

P. 60. ' You know your place.' Cf. Lib. I. § 6. 'The 
vassals and relations of her betrothed persecuted her openly, 
and plotted to send her back to her father divorced. * * 

* * Sophia also did all she could to place her in a con- 
vent. * * * * She delighted in the company of maids 
and servants, so that Sophia used to say sneeringly to her, 
"You should have been counted among the slaves who 
drudge, and not among the princes who rule." ' 

P. 62. ' Childish laughter.' Cf. Lib. I. § 7. ' The holy 
maiden receiving the mirror, showed her joy by delighted 
laughter :' and again, II. § 8, ' They loved each other in the 
charity of the Lord, to a degree beyond all belief.' 

P 63. 'A crystal clear.' Cf. Lib. I. § 7. 

P. 66. 'Our fairest bride.' Cf. Lib. I. § 8. 'No one 
henceforth dared oppose the marriage by word or plot, 

* # * and all mouths were stopped. ' 



NOTES TO ACT II. 

P. 67 ; p. 68 ; p. 69 ; p. 70 ; p. 71. Cf. Lib. II. §§ 1, 
5, 11, et passim. 

Hitherto my notes have been a careful selection of the few 
grains of characteristic fact which I could find among Die- 



248 NOTES. 

trich's lengthy professional reflections ; but the chapter on 
which this scene is founded is remarkable enough to be given 
whole, and as I have a long- standing friendship for the good 
old monk, who is full of honest naivete' and deep-hearted 
sympathy, and have no wish to disgust all my readers with 
him, I shall give it for the most part untranslated. In the 
meantime, those who may be shocked at certain expressions 
in this poem, borrowed from the Romish devotional school, 
may verify my language at the Romish booksellers', who 
find just now a rapidly increasing sale for such ware. And 
is it not, after all, a hopeful sign for the age, that even the 
most questionable literary tastes must now-a-days ally them- 
selves with religion — that the hot- bed imaginations which 
used to batten on Rousseau and Byron, have now risen 
at least as high as the Vies des Saints, and St. Francois de 
Sales' Philothea ? The truth is, that in such a time as this r 
in the dawn of an age of faith, whose future magnificence we 
may surely prognosticate from the slowness and complexity 
of its self-developing process, spiritual ' Werterism,' among 
other strange prolusions, must have its place. The emotions 
and the imaginations will assert their just right to be fed — by 
foul means if not by fair ; and even self-torture will have 
charms, after the utter dryness and life-in-death of mere 
ecclesiastical pedantry. It is good, mournful though it be, 
that a few, even by gorging themselves with poison, should 
indicate the rise of a spiritual hunger — if we do but take their 
fate as a warning to provide wholesome food before the new 
craving has extended itself to the many. It is good that 
religion should have its Werterism, in order that hereafter 
Werterism may have its religion. But to my quotations — 
wherein the reader will judge how difficult it has been for me 
to satisfy at once the delicacy of the English mind, and that 
historic truth which the highest art demands. 

1 Erat inter eos honorabile connubium, et thorus immacu- 



NOTES. 249 

latus, non id ardore libidinis, sed in conjugalis sanctimonise 
castitate, For the holy maiden, as soon as she was married, 
began to macerate her flesh with many watchings, rising every 
night to pray ; her husband sometimes sleeping, sometimes 
conniving at her, often begging her in compassion to her 
delicacy, not to afflict herself indiscreetly, often supporting 
her with his hand, when she prayed. (' And, ' says another of 
her biographers, * being taught by her to pray with her.') 
Great, truly, was the devotion of this young girl, who rising 
from the bed of her carnal husband, sought Christ, whom she 
loved as the true husband of her soul. 

' Nor certainly was there less faith in the husband who 
did not oppose such and so great a wife, but rather favoured 
her, and tempered her fervour with over-kind prudence. 
Affected, therefore, by the sweetness of this modest love, and 
mutual society, they could not bear to be separated for any 
length of time or distance. The lady therefore frequently 
followed her husband through rough roads, and no small 
distances, and severe wind and weather, led rather by emo- 
. tions of sincerity than of carnality : for the chaste presence of 
a modest husband offered no obstacle to that devoid spouse in 
the way of praying, watching, or otherwise doing good' 

Then follows the story of her nurse waking Lewis instead 
of her, and Lewis's easy good-nature about this, as about 
every other event of life. c And so, after these unwearied 
watchings, it often happened that praying for an excessive 
length of time, she fell asleep on a mat beside her husband's 
bed, and being reproved for it by her maidens, answered, — 
*' Though I cannot always pray, yet I can do violence to my 
own flesh by tearing myself in the meantime from my 
couch." ' 

' Fugiebat oblectamenta carnalia, et idee- stratum molliorem, 
et viri contubernium secretissimum, quantum licuit, declinavit. 
Quem quamvis praicordialis amoris affectu deligeret, querula- 



250 NOTES. 

batur tamen dolens, quod virginalis decorem floris non meruit 
conservare. Castigabat etiam plagis multis, et lacerabat diris 
verberibus carnem puella innocens et pudica. 

4 In principio quidem diebus quadragesimse, sextisque 
feriis aliis occultas solebat accipere disciplinas, lsetam coram 
he-minibus se ostentans. Post vero convalescens et prqficiens 
in gratia, deserto dilecti thoro surgens, fecit se in secreto 
cubiculo per ancillarum manus graviter saspissime verberari, 
ad lectumque mariti re versa hilarem se exhibuit et jocun- 
dam. 

'Vere felices conjuges, in quorum consortio tanta mun- 
ditia, in colloquio pudicitia reperta est. In quibus amor 
Christi concupiscentiam extinxit, devotio refrenavit petulan- 
tiam, fervor spiritus excussit somnolentiam, oratio tutavit 
conscientiam, charitas benefaciendi facultatem tribuit et 
laetitiam !' 

P. 88. 'In every scruple.' Cf. Lib. III. § 9, how Lewis 
' consented that Elizabeth his wife should make a vow of 
obedience and continence at the will of the said Conrad, salvd 
jure matrimonii.' 

P. 89. 'The open street.' Cf. Lib. II. § 11. ' On the 
Rogation days, when certain persons doing contrary to the 
decrees of the saints are decorated with precious and luxu- 
rious garments, the Princess, dressed in serge and bare- 
footed, used to follow most devoutly the Procession of the 
cross and the relics of the Saints, and place herself always 
at sermon among the poorest women, " knowing," says 
Dietrich, "that seeds cast into the valleys spring up into 
the richest crop of corn." ' 

P. 90. 'The poor of Christ.' Cf. Lib. II. §§6, 11, et 
passim. Elizabeth's labours among the poor are too well 
known throughout one- half at least of Christendom, where 



NOTES. 251 

she is, par excellence, the patron of the poor, to need quota- 
tions. 

P. 92. ' I'll be thy pupil' Cf. Lib. II. § 4. ' She used 
also, by words and examples, to oblige the worldly ladies 
who came to her to give up the vanity of the world, at 
least in some one particular.' 

P. 93. ' Conrad enters.' Cf. Lib. III. § 9, where this 
story of the disobeyed message and the punishment inflicted 
by Conrad for it, is told word for word. 

P. 98. ' Peaceably come by.' Cf. Lib. II. § 6. 

P. 100. ' Bond slaves.' Cf. Note 11. 

P. 104. < Elizabeth passes.' Cf. Lib. II. § 5. 'This 
most Christian mother, impletis purgationis suce diebus, used 
to dress herself in serge, and taking in her arms her new-born 
child, used to go forth secretly barefooted by the difficult 
descent from the castle by a rough and rocky road to a re- 
mote church, carrying her infant in her own arms, after the 
example of the Virgin Mother, and offering him upon the 
altar to the Lord with a taper' (and with gold, says another 
biographer). 

P. 106. ' Give us bread.' Cf. Lib. III. § 6. <A.D. 1225, 
while the Landgrave was gone to Italy to the Emperor, a 
severe famine arose throughout all Almaine : and lasting for 
nearly two years, destroyed many with hunger. Then Eliza- 
beth, moved with compassion for the miserable, collected all 
the corn from her granaries, and distributed it as alms for the 
poor. She also built a hospital at the foot of the Waitburg, 
wherein she placed all those who could not wait for the gene- 
ral distribution. * * * She sold her ow T n ornaments to 
feed the members of Christ. * * * Cuidam misero lac 
desideranti, ad mulgendum se prsebuit !' — See p. 230. 



252 NOTES. 

P. 120. * Ladies' tenderness.' Cf. Lib. III. § 8. ' When 
the courtiers and stewards complained on his return of the 
Lady Elizabeth's too great extravagance in alms-giving, "Let 
her alone, 1 ' quoth he, "to do good, and to give whatever she 
will for God's sake, only keep Wartburg and Neuenburg in 
my hands. " ' 

P. 131. 4 A crusader's cross.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 1. * In the year 
1227 there was a general ' ' Passagium " to the holy land, in 
which Frederick the Emperor also crossed the seas,' (or rather 
did not cross, says Heinrich Stero, in his annals, but having 
got as far as Sicily, came back again, — miserably disappoint- 
ing and breaking up the expedition, whereof the greater part 
died at the various ports, — and was excommunicated for so 
doing) ; * and Lewis, landgrave of the Thuringians, took the 
cross likewise in the name of Jesus Christ, and * * * 
did not immediately fix the badge which he had received to 
his garment, as the manner is, lest his wife, who loved him 
with the most tender affection, seeing this, should be anxious 
and disturbed, * * * but she found it while turning 
over his purse and fainted, struck down with a wonderful con- 
sternation.' 

P. 135. ' I must be gone.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 2. A chapter 
in which Dietrich rises into a truly noble and pathetic strain. 
* Coming to Schmalcald,' he says, i Lewis found his dearest 
friends, whom he had ordered to meet him there, not wishing 
to depart without taking leave of them.' 

Then follows Dietrich's only poetic attempt, which Basnage 
calls a ' carmen ineptum, foolish ballad,' and most unfairly, as 
all readers should say, if I had any hope of doing justice in a 
translation to this genial fragment of an old dramatic ballad, 
and its simple objectivity, as of a writer so impressed (like all 
true Teutonic poets in those earnest days), with the pathos 
and greatness of his subject, that he never tries to ' improve' 



NOTES. 253 

it by reflections, and preaching at his readers, but thinks it 
enough, just to tell his story, sure that it will speak for itself 
to all hearts. 

Qui bus valefaciens cum moerore 
Commisit suis fratribus natos cum uxore : 
Matremque deosculatos filiali more, 
Vix earn alloquitur cordis prce dolore, 
Illis mota viscera, corda tremuerunt, 
Dum alter in alterius colla irruerunt, 
Expetentes oscula, quce vix receperunt 
Propter multitudines, quce eos compresserunt. 
Mater tenens filium, uxorque maritum, 
In diver sa pertrahunt, et tenent invitum, 
Fratres cum militibus velut compeditum 
Stringunt, nee discedere sinunt expeditum. 
Erat in exercitu maximus tumultus, 
Cum carorum cernerent alter nari vultus. 
Flebant omnes pariter, senex et adultus, 
Turbse cum militibus, cultus et incultus. 
Eja ! Quis non plangeret, cum videret fientes 
Tot honestos nobiles, tarn diversas gentes, 
Cum Thuringis Saxon es illuc venientes, 
Ut viderent socios suos abscedentes. 
Amico luctamine cuncti certavere, 
Quis eum diutius posset retinere ; 
Quidam collo brachiis, quidam inhcesere 
Vestibus, nee poterat cuiquam respondere. 
Tandem se de manibus eximens suorum 
Magnatorum socius et peregrinorum, 
Admixtus tandem ccetui cruce signatorum 
Non visurus amplius terram Tlmringorum ! 

Surely there is a heart of flesh in the old monk which, 
when warmed by a really healthy subject, can toss aside 



254 NOTES. 

Scripture-parodies, and professional Stoic-sentiment, and 
describe with such life and pathos, like any eye-witness, a 
scene which occurred, in fact, two years before his birth. 

1 And thus this Prince of Peace, ' he continues, l mounting 
his horse with many knights, &c. * * * * about the 
end of the month of June, set forth in the name of the Lord, 
praising him in heart and voice, and weeping and singing 
were heard side by side. And close by followed, with saddest 
heart, that most faithful lady after her sweetest prince, her 
most loving spouse, never, alas ! to behold him more. And 
when she was going to return, the force of love and the agony 
of separation forced her on with him one day's journey : and 
yet that did not suffice. She went on, still unable to bear 
the parting, another full day's journey. * * * * At 
last they part, at the exhortations of Rudolf the Cupbearer. 
What groans, think you, what sobs, what struggles, and 
yearnings of the heart must there have been ? Yet they part, 
and go on their way. * * * * The Lord went forth 
exulting, as a giant to run his course ; the Lady returned 
lamenting, as a widow, and tears were on her cheeks. Then 
putting off the garments of joy, she took the dress of widow- 
hood. The mistress of nations, sitting alone, she turned 
herself utterly to God — to her former good works, adding 
better ones.' 

Their children were, ' Hermann, who became Landgraf ; 
daughter, who married the Duke of Brabant ; another, who 
remaining in virginity, became a nun of Aldenburg, of which 
place she is lady abbess until this day.' 



NOTES. 255 



NOTES TO ACT III. 

P. 141. ' On the freezing stone.' Cf. Lib. II. § 5. 'In 
the absence of her husband she used to lay aside her gay gar- 
ments, conducted herself devoutly as a widow, and waited for 
the return of her beloved, passing her nights in watchings, 
genuflexions, prayers, and disciplines.' And again, Lib. IV. 
§ 3, just quoted. 

P. 144. 'The will of God.' Cf. Lib. IY. § 6. 'Thernother- 
in-law said to her daughter-in-law, " Be brave, my beloved 
daughter ; nor be disturbed at that which hath happened by 
divine ordinance to thy husband, my son." Whereto she 
answered boldly, "If my brother is captive, he can be freed 
by the help of God and our friends." "He is dead," quoth 
the other. Then she, clasping her hands upon her knees, 
" The world is dead to me, and all that is pleasant in the 
world." Having said this, suddenly springing up with tears, 
she rushed swiftly through the whole length of the palace, and 
being entirely beside herself, would have run on to the world's 
end, usque qudque, if a wall had not stopped her ; and others 
coming up, led her away from the wall to which she had 
clung.' 

Ibid. l Yon lion's rage.' Cf. Lib. III. § 2. < There was 
a certain lion in the court of the Prince ; and it came to pass 
on a time, that rising from his bed in the morning, and 
crossing the court dressed only in his gown and slippers, he 
met this lion loose and raging against him. He thereon 
threatened the beast with his raised fist, and rated it man- 



256 NOTES. 

fully, till laying aside its fierceness, it lay down at the 
knight's feet, and fawned on him, wagging its tail.' So 
Dietrich. 

P. 150 ; p. 156. Cf. Lib. IV. § 7. 

' Now shortly after the news of Lewis's death, certain 
vassals of her late husband (with Henry, her brother-in-law,) 
cast her out of the castle and of all her possessions. * * * 
She took refuge that night in a certain tavern, * * * * 
and went at midnight to the matins of the " Minor 
Brothers." * * * * And when no one dare give her 
lodging, took refuge in the church. * * * * And when 
her little ones were brought to her from the castle, amid most 
bitter frost, she knew not where to lay their heads. * * 

* * She entered a priest's house, and fed her family 
miserably enough, by pawning what she had. There was in 
that town an enemy of hers, having a roomy house. * * 

* * Whither she entered at his bidding, and was forced to 
dwell with her whole family in a very narrow space, * # 

* * her host and hostess heaped her with annoyances and 
spite. She therefore bade them farewell, saying, ' ' I would 
willingly thank mankind, if they would give me any reason 
for so doing." So she returned to her former filthy cell.' 

P. 151. ' White as whales' bone' (i.e. the tooth of the 
narwhal) ; a common simile in the older poets. 

P. 157. 'The nuns of Kitzingen.' Cf. Lib. V. § 1. 
'After this, the noble Lady the Abbess of Kitzingen, Eliza- 
beth's aunt according to the flesh, brought her away honour- 
ably to Eckembert, Lord Bishop of Bamberg.' 

P. 160. 'Aged crone.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 8, where this whole 
story is related word for word. 






stotes. 257 

P. 165. 'I'd mar this face.' Cf. Lib. Y. § 1. ' "If I 
could not/' said she, " escape by any other means, I would 
with my own hands cut off my nose, that so every man might 
loath me when so foully disfigured." ' 

P. 167. 'Botenstain.' Cf. ibid. ' The bishop commanded 
that she should be taken to Botenstain with her maids, until 
he should give her away in marriage. ' 

Ibid. 'Bear children/ Ibid. 'The venerable man, 
knowing that the apostle says, "I will that the younger 
widows marry, and bear children," thought of giving her in 
marriage to some one — an intention which she perceived. 
And protested on the strength of her " votum continentise." ' 

P. 171. ' The tented field.' All records of the worthy 
Bishop on which I have fallen, describe him as ' virum militia 
strenuissimum,' — a mighty man of war. — We read of him, in 
Stero of Altaich's Chronicle, A.D. 1232, making war on the 
Duke of Carinthia, destroying many of his castles, and laying- 
waste a great part of his land ; and next year, being seized 
by some bailiff of the Duke's, and keeping that Lent in 
durance vile. In a.d. 1237, he was left by the Emperor as 
'vir magnanimus et bellicosus,' in charge of Austria, during 
the troubles with Duke Frederick ; and died in 1240. 

P. 173. 'Lewis's bones.' Cf. Lib. V. § 3. 

P. 178. 'I thank thee.' Cf. Lib. V. § 4. 'What agony 
and love there was then in her heart, He alone can tell, who 
knows the hearts of all the sons of men. I believe that her 
grief was renewed, and all her bones trembled, when she saw 
the bones of her beloved separated one from another (the 

B 



258 NOTES. 

corpse had been dug up at Otranto, and boiled). But though 
absorbed in so great a woe, at last she remembered God, and 
recovering her spirit said ' — (Her words I have paraphrased 
as closely as possible.) 

P. 179. <The close hard by/ Cf. Lib. V. § 4. 



NOTES. 259 



NOTES TO ACT IV. 



P. 180. e Your self-imposed vows.' Cf. Lib. IV. § 1. 'On 
Good Friday, when the altars were exhibited bare in remem- 
brance of the Saviour who hung bare on the cross for us, she 
went into a certain chapel, and in the presence of Master 
Conrad, and certain Franciscan brothers, laying her holy 
hands on the bare altar, renounced her own will, her parents, 
children, relations, " Et omnibus hujus modi pompis," all 
pomps of this kind (a misprint one hopes, for mundi), in imita- 
tion of Christ; and * k omnino se exuit et nudavit," stripped 
herself utterly naked, to follow Him naked, in the steps of 
poverty.' 

P. 185. 'All worldly goods.' A paraphrase of her own 
words. 

P. 186. ' Thine own needs.' ' But when she was going to 
renounce her possessions also, the prudent Conrad stopped 
her.' The reflections which follow are Dietrich's own. 

P. 188. 'The likeness of the fiend,' &c. I have put this 
daring expression into Conrad's mouth, as the ideal outcome 
of the teaching of Conrad's age on this point — and of much 
teaching also, which miscals itself Protestant, in our own age. 
The doctrine is not, of course, to be found totidem verbis in 
the formularies of any sect — yet almost all sects preach it, 
and quote Scripture for it as boldly as Conrad — the Romish. 
Saint alone carries it honestly out into practice. 

e2 



260 NOTES. 

P. 190. 'With pine boughs.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 2. 'Entering 
a certain desolate court, she betook herself, " sub gradu cujus- 
dam caminatse," to the projection of a certain furnace, where 
she roofed herself in with boughs. * * * * In the meantime, 
in the town of Marpurg, was built for her a humble cottage of 
clay and timber/ 

Ibid. < Count Pama/ Cf. Lib. VI. § 6. 

P. 192. < Jsentrudis and Guta.' Cf. Lib. VII. § 4. 'Now 
Conrad, as a prudent man, perceiving that this disciple of 
Christ wished to arrive at the highest pitch of perfection, 
studied to remove all which he thought would retard her, 
***** an d therefore drove from her all those of her 
former household in whom she used to solace or delight her- 
self. Thus the holy priest deprived this servant of God of all 
society, that so the constancy of her obedience might become 
known, and occasion might be given to her for clinging to 
God alone/ 

P. 193. 'A leprous boy,' Cf. Lib. VI. § 8. 

She had several of these proteges, successively, whose dis- 
eases are too disgusting to be specified, on whom she lavished 
the most menial cares. All the other stories of her benevo- 
lence which occur in these two pages are related by Dietrich. 

Ibid. « Mighty to save.' Cf. Lib. VII. § 7. Where we 
read, amongst other matters, how the objects of her prayers 
used to become while she was speaking so intensely hot, that 
they not only smoked, and nearly melted, but burnt the 
fingers of those who touched them : from whence Dietrich 
bids us ' learn with what an ardour of charity she used to 
burn, who would dry up with her heat the flow of worldly 
desire, and inflame to the love of eternity.' 



NOTES. 261 

P. 196. ' Lands and titles.' Cf. Lib. V. §§ 7, 8. 

P. 197. ' Spinning wool.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 6. 'And cross- 
ing himself for wonder, the Count Pama cried out and said, 
"Was it ever seen to this day that a king's daughter should 
spin wool?" "All his messages from her father," says 
Dietrich, " were of no avail." ' 

P. 204. < To do her penance.' Cf. Lib. VII. § 4. ' Now, 
he had placed with her certain austere women, from whom 
she endured much oppression patiently for Christ's sake, who, 
watching her rigidly, frequently reported her to her master 
for having transgressed her obedience, in giving something 
to the poor, or begging others to give. And when thus 
accused, she often received many blows from her master, 
insomuch that he used to strike her in the face, which she 
earnestly desired to endure patiently in memory of the stripes 
of the Lord.' 

P. 205. 'That she dared not.' Cf. Lib. VII. § 4. < When 
her most intimate friends, Isentrudis and Guta,' (whom 
another account describes as in great poverty,) ' came to see 
her, she dared not give them anything, even for food, nor 
without special licence, salute them.' 

P. 206. ' To bear within us.' ' Seeing in the church of 
certain monks w^ho "professed poverty," images sumptuously 
gilt, she said to about twenty-four of them, " You had better 
to have spent this money on your own food and clothes, for 
we ought to have the reality of these images written in our 
hearts." And if any one mentioned a beautiful image before 
her, she used to say, " I have no need of such an image. I 
carry the thing itself in my bosom.'" 

Ibid. ' Even on her bed.' Cf. Lib. VI. §§ 5, 6. 



262 NOTES. 

P. 209. 'My mother rose.' Cf. Lib. VI. § 8. < Her mother, 
who had been long ago ' (when Elizabeth was nine years old) 
r miserably slain by the Hungarians, appeared to her in her 
dreams upon her knees, and said, "My beloved^child ! pray 
for the agonies which I suffer ; for thou canst." Elizabeth 
waking, prayed earnestly, and falling asleep again, her mother 
appeared to her and told her that she was freed, and that 
Elizabeth's prayers would hereafter benefit all who invoked 
her.' Of the causes of her mother's murder, the less that is 
said, the better — but the prudent letter which the Bishop of 
Gran sent back when asked to join in the conspiracy against 
her, is worthy notice. ' Reginam occidere nolite timere bonum 
est. Si omnes consentiunt ego non contradico. ' To be read as 
a full consent, or as a flat refusal, according to the success of 
the plot. 

P. 211. ' Any living soul.' Dietrich has much on this point, 
headed, ' How Master Conrad exercised Saint Elizabeth in 
the breaking of her own will. * * * * And at last forbad 
her entirely to give alms ; whereon she employed herself in 
washing lepers and other infirm folk. In the meantime 
she was languishing, and inwardly tortured with emotions of 
compassion.' 

I may here say, that in representing Elizabeth's early 
death as accelerated by a ' broken heart,' I have, I believe, 
told the truth, though I find no hint of anything of the kind 
in Dietrich. The religious public of a petty town in the 18th 
century round the death- bed of a royal saint would of course 
treasure up most carefully all incidents connected with her 
latter days ; but they would hardly record sentiments or ex- 
pressions which might seem to their notions to derogate in 
any way from her saintship. Dietrich, too, looking at the 
subject as a monk and not as a man, would consider it just 
as much his duty to make her death-scene rapturous, as to 



NOTES. 263 

make both her life and her tomb miraculous. I have com- 
posed these last scenes in the belief that Elizabeth and all her 
compeers will be recognised as real saints, in proportion as 
they are felt to have been real men and women. 

P. 213. * Eructate sweet doctrine.' The expressions are 
Dietrich's own. 

Ibid. < In her coffin yet.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 1. 

Ibid. ' So she said. ' Cf. ibid. 

P. 214. ' The poor of Christ.' ' She begged her master -to 
distribute all to the poor, except a worthless tunic in which 
she wished to be buried. She made no will : she would have 
no heir besides Christ/ (i.e., the poor.) 

Ibid. &c. * Martha and their brother,' &c. 

I have compressed the events of several days into one in 
this scene. I give Dietrich's own account, omitting his re- 
flections. 

'When she had been ill twelve days and more, one of her 
maids sitting by her bed, heard in her throat a very sweet 
sound, * * * * and saying, "Oh, my mistress, how 
sweetly thou didst sing !" she answered, " I tell thee, I heard 
a little bird between me and the wall sing merrily ; who with 
his sweet song so stirred me up, that I could not but sing 
myself." ' 

Again § 3. 'The last day she remained till evening most 
devout, having been made partaker of the celestial table, and 
inebriated with that most pure blood of life, which is Christ. 
The word of truth was continually on her lips, and opening 
her mouth of wisdom, she spake of the best things, which she 
had heard in sermons ; eructating from her heart good words 



264 NOTES. 

and the law of clemency was heard on her tongue. She told 
from the abundance of her heart how the Lord Jesus conde- 
scended to console Mary and Martha, at the raising again of 
their brother Lazarus, and then, speaking of His weeping with 
them over the dead, she eructated the memory of the abun- 
dance of the Lord's sweetness, affectu et effectu, (in feeling 
and expression ?) Certain religious persons who were present, 
hearing these words, fired with devotion, by the grace which 
filled her lips, melted into tears. To whom the saint of God, 
now dying, recalled the sweet words of her Lord as he went 
to death, saying, " Daughters of Jerusalem," &c. Having said 
this she was silent. A wonderful thing. Then most sweet 
voices were heard in her throat, without any motion of her 
lips ; and she asked of those round, "Did ye not hear some 
singing with mef " Whereon none of the faithful are 
allowed to doubt," says Dietrich, "when she herself heard 
the harmony of the heavenly hosts &c. &c." * * * * 
From that time to twilight she lay, as if exultant and jubi- 
lant, showing signs of remarkable devotion, till the crowing 
of the cock. Then, as if secure in the Lord, she said to the 
bystanders, " What should we do, if the fiend showed himself 
to us?" And shortly afterwards, with a loud and clear voice, 
"Fly ! fly !" as if repelling the daemon.' 

* At the cock-crow she said, "Here is the hour, in which 
the Virgin brought forth the child Jesus and laid him in a 
manger. * * * * Let us talk of him, and of that new star 
which he created by his omnipotence, which never before was 
seen." " For these " (says Montanus in her name) " are the 
venerable mysteries of our faith, our richest blessings, our 
fairest ornaments : in these all the reason of our hope 
flourishes, faith grows, charity burns." ' 

The novelty of the style and matter will, I hope, excuse its 
prolixity with most readers. If not, I have still my reasons 
for inserting the greater part of this chapter. 



NOTES. 265 

P. 218. 'I demand it.' How far I am justified in putting 
such fears into her mouth, the reader may judge. Cf. Lib. 
VIII. § 5. ' The devotion of the people demanding it, her 
body was left unburied till the fourth day in the midst of a 
multitude.' * * * * 

' The flesh, ' says Dietrich, ' had the tenderness of a living 
body, and was easily moved hither and thither, at the will of 
those who handled it. * * * * And many, sublime in the 
valour of their faith, tore off the hair of her head, and the 
nails of her fingers, ("even the tips of her ears, et mamillarum 
papillas," says untranslateably Montanus of Spire,) and kept 
them as relics.' The reference relating to the pictures of her 
disciplines, and the effect which they produced on the crowd, 
I have unfortunately lost. 

P. 219. < And yet no pain.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 4. 'She 
said, " Though I am weak, I feel no disease or pain," and so 
through that whole day and night, as hath been said, having 
been elevated with most holy affections of mind towards God, 
and inflamed in spirit with most divine utterances and con- 
versations, at length she rested from jubilating, and inclining 
her head as if falling into a sweet sleep, expired.' 



266 NOTES. 



NOTES TO ACT V. 



P. 220. * Canonization.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 10. If I have 
in the last scene been guilty of a small anachronism, I have 
in this, been guilty of a great one. Conrad was of course a 
prime means of Elizabeth's canonization, and, as Dietrich, and 
his own ' Letter to Pope Gregory the Ninth' show, collected, 
and pressed on the notice of the Archbishop of Maintz, the 
miraculous statements necessary for that honour. But he 
died two years before the actual publication of her canoniza- 
tion. It appeared to me, that by following the exact facts, I 
must either lose sight of the final triumph, which connects my 
heroine for ever with Germany and all Romish Christendom, 
and is the very culmination of the whole story ; or relinquish 
my only opportunity of doing Conrad justice, by exhibiting the 
remaining side of his character. 

I am afraid that I have erred, and that the most strict 
historic truth would have coincided, as usual, with the highest 
artistic effect, while it would only have corroborated the 
moral of my poem, supposing that there is one. But I was 
fettered by the poverty of my own imagination, and 'do 
manus lectoribus. ' 

P. 221. ' Third Minors.' The order of the Third Minors 
of St. Francis of Assisi was an invention of the comprehensive 
mind of that truly great man, by which 'worldlings' were 
enabled to participate in the spiritual advantages of the 
Franciscan rule and discipline, without neglect or suspension 



notes. 267 

of their civic and family duties. But it was an institution 
too enlightened for its age ; and family and civic ties were 
destined for a far nobler consecration. The order was per- 
secuted, and all but exterminated, by the jealousy of the 
Regular Monks, not, it seems, without papal connivance. 
Within a few years after its foundation it numbered amongst 
its members the noblest knights and ladies of Christendom, 
St. Louis of France among the number. 

P. 223. * Lest he fall/ Cf. Fleury, Heel. Annals, in Anno 
1233. 'Doctor Conrad of Marpurg, the King Henry, son 
of the Emperor Frederick, &c., called an assembly at Mayence 
to examine persons accused as heretics. Among whom the 
Count of Saym demanded a delay to justify himself. As for 
the others who did not appear, Conrad gave the cross to 
those who would take up arms against them. At which 
these supposed heretics were so irritated, that on his return 
they lay in wait for him near Marpurg, and killed him, with 
brother Gerard, of the order of Minors, a holy man. Conrad 
was accused of precipitation in his judgments, and of having 
burned trop Ugerement under pretext of heresy, many noble 
and not noble, monks, nuns, burghers, and peasants. For 
he had them executed the same day that they were accused, 
without allowing any appeal.' 

P. 225. « The Kaiser.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 12, for a list of 
the worthies present. 

P. 227. 'A Zingar wizard.' Cf. Lib. I. § 1. The 
Magician's name was Klingsohr. He has been introduced 
by Novalis into his novel of Heinrieh Von Ofterdingen, as 
present at the famous contest of the Minnesingers on the 
Wartburg. Here is Dietrich's account : — 

1 There were in those days in the Landgrave's court six 



268 NOTES. 

knights, nobles, &c. &c, " cantilenarum confectoressummi," 
song- wrights of the highest excellence,' (either one of them 
or Klingsohr himself, was the author of the Nibelungen-lied, 
and the Helden-buch). 

' Now there dwelt then in the parts of Hungary, in the 
land which is called the " Seven Castles," a certain rich 
nobleman, worth 3000 marks a year, a philosopher, prac- 
tised from his youth in secular literature, but nevertheless 
learned in the sciences of Necromancy and Astronomy. 
This master Klingsohr was sent for by the Prince to judge 
between the songs of these knights aforesaid. Who, before 
he was introduced to the Landgrave, sitting one night in 
Eisenach, in the court of his lodging, looked very earnestly 
upon the stars ; and being asked if he had perceived any 
secrets, " Know that this night is born a daughter to the 
King of Hungary, who shall be called Elizabeth, and shall 
be a saint, and shall be given to wife to the son of this prince; 
in the fame of whose sanctity all the earth shall exult and be 
exalted." 

'See ! — He who by Balaam the wizard foretold the mystery 
of his own incarnation, himself foretold by this wizard the 
name and birth of his fore- chosen handmaid Elizabeth.' (A 
comparison, of which Basnage says, that he cannot deny it to 
be intolerable). I am not bound to explain all strange stories, 
but considering who and whence Klingsohr was, and the 
fact that the treaty of espousals took place a few months 
afterwards, 'adhuc sugens ubera desponsata est ;' it is not 
impossible that King Andrew and his sage vassal may have 
had some previous conversation on the destination of the un- 
born princess. 

P. 227. 'A robe.' Cf. Lib. II. § 9, for this story ; on 
which Dietrich observes, 'Thus did her Heavenly Father 



NOTES. 269 

clothe his lily Elizabeth, as Solomon in all his glory could 
not do.' 

P. 227. ' The incarnate Son.' This story is told, I think, 
by Surias, and has been introduced, with an illustration by a 
German artist of the highest note, into a modern prose 
biography of this saint. (I have omitted much more of 
the same kind.) 

Ibid. ' Sainthood's palm.' Cf. Lib. VIII. §§ 7, 8, 9. 
' While to declare the merits of his handmaid Elizabeth, in 
the place where her body rested, Almighty God was thus 
multiplying the badges of her virtues, (i. e. miracles), two 
altars were built in her praise in that chapel, which while 
Siegfried, Archbishop of Mayence, was consecrating, as he 
had evidently been commanded in a vision, at the prayers of 
that devout man master Conrad, preacher of the word of 
God ; the said preacher commanded all who had received 
any grace of healing from the merits of Elizabeth, to appear 
next day before the Archbishop and faithfully prove their 
assertions by witnesses. * * * * Then the Most Holy 
Eather, Pope Gregory the Ninth, having made diligent ex- 
amination of the miracles transmitted to him, trusting at 
the same time to mature and prudent counsels, and the Holy 
Spirit's providence, above all, so ordaining, his clemency dis- 
posing, and his grace admonishing, decreed that the Blessed 
Elizabeth was to be written among the catalogue of the 
saints on earth, since in heaven she rejoices as written in 
the Book of Life.' * * * * 

Then follow four chapters, headed severally — 
§ 9. * Of the solemn canonization of the Blessed Elizabeth.' 
§ 10. l Of the translation of the Blessed Elizabeth (and 
how the corpse when exposed diffused round a miraculous 
fragrance).' 



270 NOTES. 

§ 11. 'Of the desire of the people to see, embrace, and kiss 
(says Dietrich) those sacred bones, the organs of the Holy- 
Spirit, from which flowed so many graces of sanctities.' 

§ 12. 'Of the sublime persons who were present, and their 
oblations/ 

§ 13. 'A consideration of the divine mercy about this 
matter.' 

' Behold ! she who despised the glory of the world, and re- 
fused the company of magnates, is magnificently honoured by 
the dignity of the Pontifical office, and the reverent care of 
Imperial Majesty. And she who seeking the lowest place in 
this life, sat on the ground, slept in the dust, is now raised on 
high, by the hands of Kings and Princes. * * * * It 
transcends all heights of temporal glory, to have been made 
like the saints in glory. For all the rich among the people 
a vultum ejus deprecantur," (pray for the light of her counte- 
nance,) and kings and princes offer gifts, magnates adore her, 
and all nations serve her. Nor without reason, for " she sold 
all and gave to the poor," and counting all her substance for 
nothing, bought for herself this priceless pearl of eternity." ' 
One would be sorry to believe that such utterly mean consi- 
derations of selfish vanity, expressing as they do an extreme 
respect for the very pomps and vanities which they praise the 
saints for despising, really went to the making of any saint, 
Romish or other. 

§ 14. 'Of the sacred oil which flowed from the bones of 
Elizabeth.' I subjoin the 'Epilogus.' 

' Moreover, even as the elect handmaid of God, the most 
blessed Elizabeth, had shone during her life with wonderful 
signs of her virtues, so since the day of her blessed departure 
up to the present time, she is resplendent through the various 
quarters of the world with illustrious prodigies of miracles, 
the Divine power glorifying her. For to the blind, dumb, 
deaf, and lame, dropsical, possessed, and leprous, shipwrecked, 



NOTES. 271 

and captives, u ipsius meritis," as a reward for her holy deeds, 
remedies are conferred. Also, to all diseases, necessities, and 
dangers, assistance is given. And, moreover, by the many 
corpses, " puta sedecim," say sixteen, wonderfully raised to 
life by herself, becomes known to the faithful the magnificence 
of the virtues of the Most High glorifying His saint. To 
that Most High be glory and honour for ever. Amen.' 

So ends Dietrich's story. The reader has by this time, I 
hope, read enough to justify, in every sense, Conrad's ' A 
corpse or two was raised, they say, last week,' and much 
more of the funeral oration which I have put into his mouth. 

P. 229. ' Gallant gentleman.' Cf. Lib. VIII. § 6. 

P. 230. ' Took the crown." Cf. Lib. VIII. § 12. 

Ibid. The 'olive' and the 'pearl' are Dietrich's own 
figures. The others follow the method of scriptural interpre- 
tation, usual in the writers of that age. 

P. 243. 'Domini canes,' 'The Lord's hounds,' a punning 
sobriquet of the Dominican inquisitors, in allusion to their 
profession. 

P. 244. Tolquet,' Bishop of Toulouse, who had been in 
early life a Troubadour, distinguished himself by his ferocity 
and perfidy in the crusade against the Albigenses and Trou- 
badours, especially at the surrender of Toulouse, in company 
with his chief abettor, the infamous Simon de Montfort. He 
died a.d. 1231. See Sismoxdt, Lit. of Southern Europe, 
Cap. VL 



THE E>~T>. 



LONDON : 

SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET, 

COVENT GARDEN. 






hct 4 - 



A o 














J 



<P<3* 



f °- 







■• w 
















'. > 



"^0* 



£ <*> 







&<*> = 








* < 












o v 



-o v 




* $" Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. /J 

Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnologies L 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION [«P ' 



111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



rS* 



r vj s 



z*r™ 














j- % 



f.^V"''^..^"'/.^.; 




/: 






tf 



^ 



O-, % 




C , 










y%^ 



e5> ^ 






/ ^ vjq ^. r ^ ». r *v 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






014 494 290 5 • 



